


The Fate of His Bloodline

by Stormvoël (BushRat8)



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: AU, F/M, Pre-CotBP, Pregnancy, Romance, Twins, post-AWE, what if
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-08-10 02:35:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16461791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BushRat8/pseuds/Stormvo%C3%ABl
Summary: How might Hector Barbossa's and Sophie Grantham's lives have changed if, at 18 years old, she'd accepted his invitation to join him in his room before he was called away to his ship?[An Alternate Timeline, as requested by Walkwithursus, with a special nod to SelyneNightshade, who also loved the idea]





	1. Might Ye Not Stay Awhile?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [walkwithursus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/walkwithursus/gifts), [SelyneNightshade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SelyneNightshade/gifts).



> This is a "What if…?": an AU to the normal Barbossa/Innkeeper arc. It repeats the first portion of chapter 4, _Shall We Dance?_ However, it goes in a completely different direction after that.
> 
> In Europe at this time, many people believed potatoes and tomatoes to be poisonous. However, the Caribbean is the New World, they are common there, and everyone eats them. Even if men often balk at eating their vegetables, Sophie serves them anyway.
> 
> _Knackered_ : exhausted, worn out, referring both to people and things. A word used then and used now.
> 
> _Pimenta_ is the local term for allspice (sometimes rendered as 'pimento'). In both its fresh and dried forms, it's used in all kinds of Caribbean dishes, both sweet and savory.
> 
> A few lines have been lifted from _Beginning a Life,_ including the selections from the Bible's Song of Songs (aka Song of Solomon), as well as most of the final scene from _Shall We Dance?_
> 
> There's a short postscript concerning an article of Barbossa's clothing.

 

 

-oOo-

 

 

 

It's been a hard ten months for Barbossa, full of battles and storms;  even worse, the ennui of nothing happening at all.  He's been wounded, sustaining a bad cut on his left hip that's taken a long time to knit;  and once, becalmed far out to sea, supplies and rainfall ran so low that he feared he and the crew would starve to death, if they didn't first perish of thirst.  
  
He's exhausted to his bones, and looking forward to two or three weeks at anchor so he can settle into Grantham House and spend his time resting, reading, and eating well… and the opportunity to be near Sophie Grantham is the biggest sweetener he could possibly think of.  
  
Old Nan answers the door and has him sign the ledger, but then she calls for Sophie.  "Begging your pardon, Captain,"  she says,  "but all this running up and down the stairs is best left to younger legs than mine.  Sophie!"  The girl appears.  "Look who's come to visit.  He'll be having room number six, the same as always.  Take him upstairs now…"  
  
Sophie catches Barbossa's gaze, cursing inwardly that it's so easy for him to make her blush.  "Welcome, Captain.  Please, follow me."  
  
_T' hell an' back, an' anywhere ye'd wish t' take me!_   he can't help saying to himself as he mounts the stairs behind her.  _D' ye know what a grand sight y' are, darlin', or how much I've missed ye?_  
  
They stop by the door of chamber six, and Barbossa grows dizzy, a clutch in his chest as he moves close enough to Sophie to inhale her by-now familiar scent — fresh green rosemary, a breath of salty skin, the bite of cloves — and he makes no effort to stop imagining the erotic delights they could share.  _Oh, dear God.  'Tis years I've waited t' be this close, m' sweet Sophia.  I've known ye since a child an' young maiden, an' all those years, ye've made me welcome in yer home.  But now, ye're fully a child no longer, an' what I would not give for yer kisses;  t' feel yer arms 'round me neck an' yer naked bosom 'gainst me chest;  t' delve deep inside yer belly an' know yer woman's heat.  An' I should also desire t' rain kisses 'pon yer virgin flower, for as I'd take m' pleasure of ye, so would I wish t' taste yer sweetness an' give ev'ry pleasure 'tis in me t' bestow._   "'Tis a fine young woman ye've grown into, Miss Sophia, an' no mistake,"  he says quietly, trembling.  "Must ye rush off just yet?  Might ye not stay awhile?"  
  
She drops her eyes from his for a moment;  then, with a boldness she didn't know she could express, looks up again, raising her arms so she might take Barbossa's hairy face between her hands.  "I've an evening's work still to do, and so I cannot stay right now, but…"  Shyly, Sophie touches his lips;  closes her eyes when he runs the tip of his tongue down her finger and across her palm.  "If… if you do want me as much as… as I want you, then…"  She's so flustered that she can scarcely speak.  "I'll come to you tonight once Nan's abed… Hector."  
  
The import of what she's just said, along with the sound of his name in her mouth, pulls a long, shuddering sigh out of Barbossa before he can stop it.  "Ohhh, 'tis an age I been wishin' t' hear ye call me so,"  he whispers, adding,  "Shall ye come in just for a moment so's I can hold ye, an' leave me with a kiss afore ye must go?"  
  
He doesn't have to hear her answer — not with the warm smile on her face and the pink on her cheeks — and presently, after years spent wishing, they find themselves alone together.     
  
Barbossa has kissed many women throughout his life and enjoyed it every time, but none have rivaled this chaste young maiden he now holds in his arms.  She's never been kissed before, so he slowly, gently works her lips apart, licking them, slipping his tongue into her mouth, delighted when she hesitantly responds in kind.  "Ye taste so good,"  he murmurs once they break apart.  "Like oranges an' spice an' yer own sweet self.  Kiss me again?"  
  
Sophie melts against him, open to whatever he wishes to do, sighing as he first nuzzles her neck and the soft cleft between her breasts before he opens his mouth to hers again in a kiss so deep that it feels like he's inhaling the life from her and giving his own in return.  "Come an' sit on m' lap,"  Barbossa says, pinching her chin.  "Please, darlin'… jus' for a moment afore I must let ye go."  
  
He sits on the side of the bed, holding his arms out, guiding Sophie to seat herself, not sideways, but astride his thighs, hinting at how they will hold each other later that night.  Barbossa is hard already — so achingly hard — and he knows she can feel it;  she's shivering, and he doesn't know if it's from excitement or unease.  "Don't be afeared, little Dove," he reassures her as he strokes her back and kisses her throat.  "I ain't gonna hurt ye, not now, nor later.  I'd ne'er hurt ye."  
  
Sophie's cheeks are stained deep rose — something Hector is pleased to recognize as a sign of high excitement — and as he rocks her on his lap, he's sorely tempted to lift her onto him and join with her then and there.  "Tell me, sweet:  have ye knowledge of what th' way is 'twixt men an' women?"  he asks, for he would not have her unsure or shocked.  "D 'ye know how we be made t' fit t'gether?"  
  
Her eyes shyly averted from his, Sophie nods.  
  
Barbossa has no such self-consciousness about speaking of these things.  "An' d' ye want me thus?  D' ye want me inside ye, m' beautiful lass, pushin' deep int' th' heat of yer belly?"  He's intoxicated by her warmth and fragrance and is all but moaning as he presses his lips to her ear, whispering, "Will ye come t' me later so's I can adore ev'ry sweet inch of ye, inside an' out?"  
  
"Aye."  It's just a faint movement of Sophie's lips, barely audible.  
  
"An' will ye think of me 'til then?"  Barbossa's hands have dropped to her hips, tracing their curve, unconsciously helping her to grind against him as he speaks.  "As ye go about yer work…"  He lays his head against her shoulder, his breath hitching and warm on her neck.  "Think of me, m' darlin'.  Watch me at th' table an' know what awaits."  
  
In the distance, Old Nan is shouting, wondering what's become of Sophie, who reluctantly slides off Barbossa's lap.  "I'd stay now if I could,"  she sighs, leaning down to press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.  "But I promise you, Hector, I'll come just as soon as I can."  
  
Once she's gone, Barbossa finds that he's shaking;  with repressed lust, certainly, but it's far more than that:  it's desire for a woman such as he's never felt before:  _this_ woman, _his_ woman.  Over each succeeding year of their acquaintance, his feelings have grown far beyond any mere lust to become something he refuses to name but knows deep down is true.  When he's away from this place, he longs for Sophie in every way he can think of:  as the young woman who feeds him so wonderfully well, who's cheerful, sometimes saucy, and makes him laugh, who keeps a clean, restful house for him, pleased to provide whatever he needs;  and, in the few moments they've managed to snag together, she's the most agreeable company he knows of whether he feels up or down, and now… now…  
  
She has spoken his name at last, and the knowledge that she will become his lover this very night is almost too much to bear.  
  
It almost, _almost_ affects Barbossa's appetite, until he sees that Sophie's prepared his favorite meal of peppered chicken, roasted carrots, and a sweet-spiced milk tart adorned with fruit to finish;  not only that, but she has three fat, juicy tomatoes sliced up for his enjoyment, sprinkled with finely-chopped rosemary, thyme, and salt.  _Thank you,_   he mouths as she puts the plate in front of him, away from the reach of the other men at the table.  
  
"Anyone else want a tomato?"  Sophie asks, because she has to.  "No?"  
  
"Ain't those things poisonous?"  one of the lodgers says;  a man in from England for whom foods of the islands are strange and often suspect.  
  
Sophie smiles at him.  "Don't be silly.  I eat them all the time, and so does everyone else around here."  
  
"Me, too,"  adds Barbossa through the thick slice he's jammed into his mouth.  "You don't eat 'em, 'tis more for me."  
  
Just once, as she's refilling everyone's goblets, he manages to stroke his fingers along her arm as if to steady her and make it easier for her to pour, the result of which is that she nearly drops the bottle.  "Ye seem t' make a habit of tippin' things o'er on me… or almost,"  he teases.  
  
"I'm sorry,"  she says quickly.  
  
"I'm not."  
  
Sophie has to close herself in the storeroom for a moment in an effort to calm herself down, but she's smiling, anticipating the clandestine tryst with her captain as much as he is.  _Hector, Hector…!_  
  
The two hours of cleaning the kitchen have never gone so slowly, and she's hot and sweaty by the time she's done.  "Nan, please… I don't feel so well,"  she lies.  "Might I not go to bed now?"  
  
Old Nan flicks her wrist at her.  "Yes, very well, but I want you up bright and early tomorrow morning."  
  
Once in her room, Sophie strips off her greasy kitchen dress, scrubs her teeth with salt and burnt alum before refreshing her mouth with an astringent tincture of allspice followed by cool water, and carefully washes herself from top to toe, because she wants to be clean and appealing.  She puts on her best linen chemise, but doesn't know what to top it with;  settling, after a bit of thought, for topping it with nothing at all save her shawl;  then sits down to brush out her hair.  
  
Sophie remembers something from years before:  Barbossa leaning out of his chamber window to grin at her, telling her how pretty her hair was.  He shouldn't have been able to see it, but she was clumsy and knocked the cap from her head… _But it won't be only my hair he sees_ ,  she thinks anxiously.  _I don't know what he'll look at;  what he'll touch._  
  
She remembers his kisses of just hours before and his hands on her hips;  feels a shivering heat inside her as she recalls his asking if she knew the ways of men.  Yes, she does… but then again, she doesn't, not really.  
  
She remembers what he felt like when she was on his lap:  the firm length of what she knew marked him as a man and the way he urged her to rub against him.  
  
The brush clatters to the floor as Sophie drops it and presses both hands to her flaming cheeks, trying to imagine what it will feel like when her Hector finally takes her to him, not merely hinting at what will happen, or grazing against her, but fully, in his most intimate embrace.  
  
  
  
  
-oOo-  
-oOo-

 

  
  
The house is dead quiet when Sophie finally scratches on Barbossa's door, then lets herself in to find him sitting on the bed, a single candle nearby providing the only light.  "Come,"  he says, holding his hand out in invitation.  "Come, m' sweet Sophia."  
  
She gets halfway across the room, then stands still, rooted to the spot.  
  
Barbossa never expected her to act like a woman of experience, bounding into his bed as though it were something she does every day, and he's not surprised by her hesitation.  "There's naught t' be afeared of,"  he tells her quietly as he gets off the bed and approaches her.  
  
He's still dressed in his waistcoat and sark, which falls to his knees and is long enough to cover everything of consequence — cover, though not hide his aroused condition — but he might as well be stark naked for all Sophie's ever seen him this way before.  She doesn't know whether to smile in appreciation or run, but while she's trying to make up her mind, Barbossa reaches her and strokes her hair;  the first time he's ever touched it or seen it down loose since that time her cap accidentally fell from her head in the garden.  " _'Let her kiss me wi' th' kisses of her mouth, for her love be better'n wine…'"_   he whispers as he seductively slips one waistcoat button loose, then another, and another, slowly opening the garment so his body is further revealed, covered only by a single layer of worn linen.  
  
Sophie doesn't know how she's brave enough to answer from the same passionate verses, but the desire to do so overrides her bashfulness.  " _'Let his left hand be under my head, and his right hand embrace me,'"_   she answers with a smile.  
  
If the light were brighter, she'd see the hot flush on Barbossa's face and the red patches coloring his chest;  if she were more experienced, she'd know what they mean, and that he's making an extraordinary effort to keep himself in check so that he doesn't frighten her.  " _'Oh, m' Dove, that be hid in th' clefts of th' rock, let me see yer count'nance, let me hear yer voice;  for sweet be yer voice, an' yer count'nance be comely.'"_   Dropping his waistcoat to the floor in a soft -thwoosh-, he takes a long, shaky breath, overcome.  "So sweet an' comely, m' darlin,"  he repeats, putting one hand lightly on Sophie's shoulder and letting it drift down her arm.  "Oh, Sophia, ye've no idea how I've desired ye… how much, an' how long…"  
  
Then Barbossa's lips are on hers;  not gently, as that afternoon, but with the hunger of years, his arms tight around her and his tongue sweeping through her mouth.  "Mmmm:  pimenta,"  he says once he pulls away.  "Sweet an' spicy, you are."  
  
He lifts Sophie up in his arms and carries her to the bed, laying her down and admiring the vision of her lying there, waiting to receive him for the very first time.  There have been so many women he's taken without regard to the pleasure of anyone but himself, but this is different:  looks different, feels different.  He'll go slow, delighting in every long moment, and in doing so, will help Sophie in taking the time she needs to ready herself, knowing she's never opened herself to a man before.  
  
The first thing Barbossa does is to sit down on the bed at her feet, sliding his fingers around her ankle and up her calf, appreciating the slenderness of the first and the warm curve of the latter.  He finds the front of her knee, then the back, before slipping her chemise up just enough to allow him to rub his lips along the tender flesh at the inside of it.  "Soft,"  he murmurs.  
  
He debates with himself over how to proceed from there:  should he kiss his way up Sophie's thighs, knowing it might well frighten her, or wait and press those first kisses to her throat and breasts instead?  He's used to wading right in and taking what he wants, but that's with paid women, and,  _There's much t' be said for th' pleasure of a slow seduction_ ,  he decides, smiling inwardly,  _an' it be somethin' new t' me that I may surely enjoy along with her._  
  
Stretching out alongside Sophie, Barbossa kisses her cheek and inhales the fragrance of her hair;  finds that she's trembling.  "D' not fear me, Sophia,"  he reassures her, laying his hand on her belly in suggestion of where he ultimately wants to be.  "D' not fear what'll happen, for 'tis what all lovers do."  
  
His determination not to rush pays off when he feels her relax a bit and her arm slide around his waist.  "You don't frighten me, Hector,"  she replies.  "You never have.  I wouldn't be here if… if I didn't want…"  
  
"Shhh.  Shhh…  Lie quiet, Dove, an' let us share warmth an' pleasure as ye've ne'er felt b'fore."  
  
Barbossa explores her, slowly, gently, as he unties the neck of her chemise with delicate fingers:  the dip of her throat, the warm curve of her shoulder, the roundness of one buxom breast in his hand, the silky nipple he takes into his mouth, feeling it tighten on his tongue as he sucks. He makes a dozen discoveries, each more delicious than the last, before he decides that it's Sophie's turn to find out a little more about him.  
  
Helping her to sit up, he takes both her hands in his own.  "Touch me, sweet,"  he whispers.  
  
Sophie starts to pant as he guides her fingers, first along his thighs, then between his legs;  squeaks in response to the feel of thin, damp, velvety-soft skin gliding over hard flesh and the weight of the unexpectedly furry sac beneath it.  She has known for a long time that men have these parts, but never imagined what they would feel like in her hands, or that Barbossa would whimper in such bliss at her touch.  "Hector,"  she says softly, the name spoken as a breath into its owner's mouth.  "Ohhh, Hector…"  
  
Enveloped by new sounds and scents and sensations, Sophie whispers words of adoration against Barbossa's bearded cheek and sighs as he turns his head to kiss her.  "That's it, that's it,"  he moans.  "D' ye like it?  D' ye like what I have for ye?"  Breathing heavily, Barbossa lets his head drop back for a moment, then presses his forehead to Sophie's as he licks his lips.  "Oh God!  Ye must stop now… stop, stop, stop!"  
  
Sophie's eyes widen.  "Did I hurt you?"  
  
Barbossa laughs;  a rumbling chuckle that's rarely heard, and then only when he's most deeply amused.  " _Hurt_ me?  Oh, nay… Darlin' Sophia… ye're makin' me feel so good that I be afeared I might be done with afore I e'er get started.  So ye must lie quiet now,"  he tells her again, helping her to stretch out, lifting her knees and pushing the hem of her chemise up a bit, his fingers tickling along the insides of her thighs, pleased when she doesn't fight him or express alarm.  "Lie quiet, m' soft, sweet Dove, an' let me make ye ready t' take me deep inside…"  
  
His tongue is flicking between Sophie's legs before she knows what's happening, his lips meeting her wet, hidden ones in the most intimate of kisses.  In the quiet darkness, the soft, tantalizing sounds Barbossa makes are magnified:   the growl of hunger rising from his throat the longer he works at her, the moist lap of his mouth as he nibbles at her pink nub, his purr of delight when he feels Sophie circle her hips slightly in an instinctive motion.  _That's it, m' darlin' girl_ ,  he thinks, relishing the taste of her that he's imagined on the many nights he's pleasured himself while alone.  _Ye're wet an' so very ready, but I'd have ye spend yerself first so's ye know what it feels like_ …  
  
He knows exactly how and where to lick, and hasn't long to wait until a violent shudder passes through Sophie and she claps both hands over her mouth to keep back her yelps.  "Sorry!"  she rasps, embarrassed.  
  
"Sorry?!  For what?  For allowin' yerself t' feel as a woman should?  Don't be foolish, Dove."  Barbossa kisses Sophie's wet thighs, then crawls slowly upward, stopping along the way to press his nose into her navel, then his face between her breasts.  "Ready as ye'll e'er be,"  he whispers in her ear.  "Tell me ye desire me inside ye.  Say it;  don't be shy."  
  
"I…"  
  
"Say it."  Barbossa's nipping at her earlobe.  "Say it, now.  Tell me, 'Hector, I want us joined as man an' woman, an' for ye t' be inside me, deep as ye can go.'"  
  
"I… I want…"  
  
Barbossa's voice is soothing but insistent.  "Tell me, darlin'.  Say ye want me manly parts searchin' out th' most hidden places within ye."  
  
"Hector!"  
  
Another warm chuckle, followed by a kiss.  "All right, just this once, I'll let ye be quiet 'bout it owin' t' yer bein' an innocent."  As he speaks, Barbossa wriggles himself into place, pushing Sophie's knees apart and finding just the right spot to make his entrance.  
  
The inevitable "virgin" question is asked once he bumps up against her.  "You feel so big!"  Sophie says nervously.  "Do I have room…?"  
  
"Oh aye, ye've room an' then some."  Barbossa rocks his hips, gently at first, then harder, and catches Sophie in a kiss to swallow her cry of surprise and not-quite-pain when he suddenly slides in and sinks deep.  " 'S all right, 's all right!  Ye'll blossom an' grow soft 'round me in just a moment, an' whate'er hurts'll soon fade."         
  
It happens just as he says, which sends Sophie to gripping his back and hooking her legs around his thighs, trying to pull him closer once he begins to stroke.  "Ohhh, Hector…"  
  
The sound of his name hits Barbossa straight in the balls and sends tingles flowing throughout his body. "That's it, Dove:  say it again…"  
  
"Hector…!"  
  
"Again!"  
  
"Hector…!"  
  
Barbossa is drunk with sensation;  blind to anything but the woman beneath him;  hears only his name in her mouth, called with raging desire, along with the wet sounds they make when their bodies press together and pull apart;  wouldn't feel it if the house burned down, not when Sophie's heat has surrounded him so completely and is relentless in driving him to climax.  _Not yet, not yet!_   he cries silently, trying frantically to stave it off, but it's too much, too intense, too long-awaited, and Hector reaches a crisis the strength of which feels like it will tear him apart and hollow him out for the next three years;  it overtakes him and a thick gush of his seed surges deep into Sophie as he claws at the sheets and shrieks into her hair lying loose on the pillow.  
  
He lies there weak and gasping for air, his heart pounding, chagrined that he didn't last longer, but not in the least surprised;  and, at any rate, there's not a law in the world that says they can't do it again.  
  
The way Sophie's holding him says she's enormously pleased.  "Good, little Dove?"  Barbossa murmurs.  
  
She smiles.  "More…?"  
  
Her lover laughs and kisses the tip of her nose, her cheeks, her lips.  "More, ye shall have,"  he tells her,  "though ye must give me a moment t' gather me strength back."  He studies her.  "I heard ye cry, sweet, when I first pushed m'self inside ye;  there were pain for a moment, no?  Tell me."  
  
"A little.  A little… it… it stung a bit, but… then it stopped…"  
  
She's a good girl and hasn't yet learned to say such explicit things aloud, so Barbossa says it for her.  "I know, Dove, an' 'tis the way of things when ye're as yet untouched.  But ye're virgin no longer, so ye'll not feel that pain again, I promise."  
  
"Virgin no longer,"  she echoes.  
  
"Aye, Dove: I've plucked yer flower, see, so it be mine, t' treasure for now an' always."  
  
He likes that idea, Barbossa does, just as he's loved it every time he's looked at Sophie throughout the years and wondered what carnal delights he would find beneath her skirts… and now he knows.  But he's learned something else, too:  that she's far, far more to him than that:  that she's warmth and care and comfort;  the only woman who's ever loved him — he certain of that — save for the mother and sisters he's not seen in so many years.  
  
In the depths of his soul, he's always known that this young maiden was meant for him, and he fell in love with her long ago.  
  
It frightens him.  It thrills him.  His very own sweetheart is something he's never had before, and he doesn't know what he'd do if he ever lost her.  "Ye're so beautiful,"  he whispers, running a fingertip along her forehead and down her cheek.  "M' soft little Dove.  Me own Sophia."  
  
After a short time to rest, Barbossa makes love to Sophie again;  this time slowly, leisurely, kissing every bit of her that he can reach and encouraging her to put her hands all over his body to examine its masculine contours:  his slender hips, strong shoulders, muscular legs and arms… the organ that's gaining its strength back and growing stiff again.  "You're fuzzy,"  she giggles, playing with the hair on his legs and his chest and under his arms, before pulling on the plait that drapes down his back.  "I like that."  
  
It lasts much longer this time and he's exhausted once his climax claims him again, barely able to move.  "Shall ye come t' me t'morrow night, sweet?"  he asks as he burrows under the covers, pulling Sophie along with him.  "Shall ye come again an' hold me;  keep me warm?"  
  
_Anything you want, my love,_   she thinks, although she doesn't say it.  "Of course,"  she replies, laying her head on his chest.  "As soon as I'm done with my work, I'll come."  
  
"An' will ye stay wi' me 'til mornin', m' darlin'?"  
  
"Oh Hector, I can't,"  Sophie sighs.  "Nan's the one who wakes me in the morning, and if she finds me not in my bed…"  She nestles even closer to Barbossa.  "I wish I could."  
  
"Then stay wi' me long as ye can."  
  
They lie there, whispering and trading kisses, until Sophie knows she can no longer chance not being in her room.  "I'm sorry, I have to go,"  she begins to say.  
  
"Don't,"  Barbossa pleads.  "Don't…"  
  
"I have to…"  
  
The last kiss they share is one which will have to carry them until they can next be together.  
  
Neither can know it will be longer than they ever planned.

  
  
-oOo-  
-oOo-

  
  
Barbossa is whistling softly to himself as he undresses, counting the moments until he will hear Sophie's scratch at his door and the click of the handle.  "What shall I teach ye t'night?"  he asks himself, laughing.  "There be uses for yer soft mouth as ye don't know yet;  mayhap ye'll be ready t' learn 'em…"  
  
There's a scratch at the door, all right, but it isn't Sophie.   "Captain!"  It's Old Nan.  "Captain Barbossa!"  
  
It's times like these when he thinks it might not have been such a great idea to strip down to the nude, and in his haste, Barbossa doesn't quite get his clothing properly back on.  "Aye?"  he asks, tugging his sark to cover his shoulders and grasping at his breeches so they don't fall down;  difficult when he's trying to wedge the door open a crack with a third hand he doesn't have.  
  
Old Nan's seen plenty during her years of keeping the inn, and she pays no attention to his state of deshabille.  "You've a visitor from your ship, Captain;  one of your officers, I do believe.  He said it was urgent, or I'd not have bothered you."  
  
"Where is he?"  
  
Old Nan steps aside to let Barbossa's quartermaster into the room.  
  
The man couldn't care less if Barbossa is all but naked, and fills him in on the situation as the latter gets dressed.  "We got a brace o' ships of th' line on our tail,"  he explains.  "Don't know how they found us, but we're lucky that word came quick, an' we'd best get out while we still can."  
  
"Shite an' fuck all!"  But the profanity is only half for the danger to his ship;  the other half being there's a week still to go on his stay at the inn that Barbossa can no longer take, and his Sophie — his dear lover Sophie — what hopes and desires he'd planned to share with her, and now they'll have to be put off for who knows how long.  
  
There's no time for a careful settling of the bill, so Barbossa slaps down a bag of coins that's twice what he owes, sending Old Nan to the pantry for two loaves of Sophie's home-baked bread and a half-wheel of cheese so he'll have something tasty and filling to break his fast later on.  "And some apples an' oranges an' yer other fruit, right quick!"  he adds.  
  
His mind consumed by the threat to his ship and knowing he has little time to get to the docks, there's no opportunity to seek Sophie out so he might say farewell, press a tender kiss to her lips, and assure her he has every intention of returning when he next has a chance.  Still, there's something Barbossa doesn't yet know:  that Sophie's in her room and heard Old Nan calling his name, and she now stands at her window, watching him prepare to hastily depart down the lane.  
  
But driven by a feeling that overwhelms him, telling him he must act on it, Barbossa stops in his tracks;  he turns, looking up at the inn, and spots Sophie in her white nightdress and cap, her hands on the window pane, an unhappy wraith begging him to come back to her.  "Oh, m' Dove,"  he whispers to the air.  "M' darlin' Sophia, wait for me."  
  
Under cover of adjusting the set of his hat with one hand, Barbossa blows her a kiss and receives one in return, before resolutely turning back toward the town and rushing off to the docks.  Her forehead pressed to the glass, Sophie watches him get smaller and smaller, until only the hat with its lush feathers serves to mark him out in the distance from the other men that surround him.  "God go with you, dearest Hector, and keep you safe,"  she whispers,  "and I will be here, waiting for your return."  She grows suddenly weak and slumps to the floor, sobbing, her arms around herself and wishing she was back in Barbossa's warm embrace.  "Please come home soon, Hector, and I'll be waiting… I'll always wait for you… Hector…"    
  
  
  
  
-oOo-  
-oOo-  
  
  
  
  
  
Sophie has never felt such loneliness as consumes her with Barbossa being gone, and it's worst of all at night.  Throughout the years that she longed for him, it was just that:  longing without real knowledge.  But now… she knows every intimate part of him.  She knows his voice raised in passion, and the tickling flick of his tongue against her as he whispers of how good she tastes.  She knows his strength and his tenderness;  his scent and the warmth of his body against hers.  She knows his touch just as she touched him, and most of all, she dreams of opening herself to him;  of having him inside her once more.  
  
In tears, she prays every night for him to come back soon and hopes he will still desire her, for if he doesn't, she could not bear it.  
  
_Come back to me, Hector_ ,  she sniffles, pressing her hands to her belly and recalling the sharp pleasure-pain of the first moment when Barbossa slid into her, remembering the sound of his panting and the feel of his arms wrapped so tightly about her that she could scarcely breathe.  _Please, my love, come home._    
  
  
  
  
  
-oOo-  
-oOo-    

  
  
  
Sophie's head spins and she wobbles, choked with sudden nausea, then rushes to the window and gets sick;  same as she's been sick every morning for the past three weeks.  "Oh, God!"  she groans, and she cannot refuse to acknowledge the truth any longer.  "It's not possible!"  
  
But it is.  She knows it is.  She's missed her courses for the past two months, going on a third, and she knows perfectly well what it means:  that one precious night of heat and passion she had with Hector Barbossa has left her with his offspring asleep in her womb.  
  
She's not at all unhappy at this prospect, for she loves him, and to present him with a well-born son or daughter would be the finest gift she could give.  Sophie is a realist and does not expect that he'd acknowledge the child, but knowing when and how it was created is enough to please her.  
  
First, though, there's the worry of breaking the news to Old Nan.  Sophie cannot tell her Barbossa's the father, or else he'd become persona non grata in the house as the man who'd seduced the innkeeper's granddaughter and made her the next thing to a whore.  The only thing she can think of is to simply refuse to speak.  Old Nan won't expel her from the house — she's too useful to lose — but she _will_ make life difficult in punishment for what she's done.  
  
For the time being, Sophie will say nothing until Old Nan notices how round her belly is and the secret can no longer be kept.

 

  
  
-oOo-  TBC  -oOo-

 

 

 

 

-oOo-  A Note on Clothing  -oOo-

 

 

 

A sark is another name for a shirt, and the one Barbossa wears reaches just above his knees, being fastened between his legs to serve as underwear.  Although he usually sleeps in shirt, breeches, and stockings while aboard ship (adding waistcoat, sash, and belt if there's a potential enemy nearby or the weather's dangerous and he's likely to be called out on deck at a moment's notice), the sark functions, when worn alone and down loose, as a light linen nightshirt when he's ashore in safe surroundings like Grantham House;  that is, except on those occasions when he chooses to sleep in the nude so he can enjoy the feel of fresh air on his skin;  something he can do only after sundown if he doesn't want to painfully broil in the sun.  In spite of his Portuguese blood, Barbossa is fair-skinned — he inherited his mother's roses-and-cream complexion — and you can see the terrible damage years of constant exposure to strong sunlight did to his face, neck, and hands.  
  
Just FYI, as a large number of sailors did, Barbossa knows how to sew and darn and does not consider it in any way "feminine" to do so.  Sewing is a necessary, useful skill he learned as a sailmaker, and it translates well to the maintenance and repair of his clothing, from stockings to coat.  While Sophie makes every effort to care for his clothing when he's ashore, if she's too busy, he thinks nothing of picking up needle, thread, and thimble and doing it himself.


	2. Growing Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sophie's pregnancy is hard on her, but in spite of that, it's a happy one, reminding her of every moment she spent with Barbossa, and she gets a surprise at the birth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Childbed fever" was blood poisoning, resulting in a painful death that claimed many new mothers during that era. Sophie was lucky to avoid it.
> 
> Old Nan Grantham had one son, who in turn had one daughter: Sophia. Sophie's mother died in childbirth and her widowed father perished at sea shortly thereafter, leaving the baby to be raised by her grandmother.
> 
> The reason Sophie chose the names she did will be revealed in a later chapter.
> 
> Sophie, although she's always been perfectly aware of his line of work, generally doesn't refer to Barbossa as a pirate, preferring the euphemism of 'outlaw.'

 

 

 

 

-oOo-  
  
 

 

 

 

 

  
"Sophie!"  Old Nan says sharply.  "Sophie!  Come here, girl;  I want to look at you!"  
  
_Here it comes.  She's noticed._  
  
Old Nan takes Sophie by the arm and propels her into the storeroom, where she stares at her up and down.  "Do you have something you want to tell me?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Don't be insolent, girl!  I have eyes;  I can see what you've been trying to hide!"  Old Nan pulls Sophie's smock off and stands there nodding at the loosened bodice and the obvious lack of stays.  "So, you've been sporting with a man, and look what it's got you!  Whose is it?  Who?"  
  
"I'm sorry, Nan."  Sophie says nothing else.  
  
Old Nan slaps her.  "Harlot!  Who's the father?"  
  
Sophie stands silent while Old Nan berates and bullies her, thinking of Barbossa and wishing he were there.  _Oh, Hector_ ,  she thinks, sniffling.  _Hector, my love, will you care for me still now that I have your child inside me?  Or was I just a conquest;  a woman you wanted once and then never again?_  
  
She pushes back on the hideous thought, for if she allows it to take her over, the misery will be too much;  she'll fade unto death and take her baby with her.  
  
Just because Sophie's pregnant doesn't mean that her grandmother will let her get away without doing every bit of her hard work, although the old woman inexplicably does do her the kindness of feeding her more and better than usual, and even allows her an extra hour's rest here and there.  But she never lets up on demanding,  "Who's the father?"  
  
Sophie never answers.  
  
  
  
  
-oOo-  
-oOo-  
  
  
  
  
Over the months, cooking and cleaning become painful chores for Sophie — her back and joints hurt, her breasts swell and ache, her feet and legs puff up, and she often feels so faint and exhausted that she's afraid she'll fall down the stairs or into the hearth — but strangely, she's never been happier.  The only thing that could make life better would be the warmth of Barbossa's arms around her, his affectionate murmur in her ear, and his kiss on her lips upon his return.  
  
During her rare moments of rest, she retreats to her room, where she caresses her growing belly, gazing at it in the mirror, or sits awkwardly in a chair, sewing little clothes for the baby to come.  "Hector,"  she whispers, hoping somehow he'll hear her.  "Hector, look:  look what we made!  Your son or daughter… I hope you'll be proud."  
  
After some grumbling — more for effect than anything else — Old Nan engages a midwife to look in on Sophie from time to time, and to be present at the birth.  It's fortunate for everyone's sake that she inadvertently chooses the one decent woman on the island.  Two of the others are less than caring, and the third is an outright quack, having lost more babies than she's delivered, and if Old Nan had known of the difference among them and really wanted to give in to her anger, she'd have gone straight for one of those.  "See if she'll tell you who the father is,"  she instructs the midwife.  "I don't care how you find out."  
  
This is hardly the first baby born out of wedlock on the island, it certainly won't be the last, and the midwife sees no reason to upset Sophie by attempting to pry a name out of her that she's unwilling to tell.  "I'll try,"  is all she says, shrugging.  
  
Her first visit with Sophie is intended simply to get to know her.  "Don't be nervous, lovey,"  she says, sitting back with the cup of tea Sophie prepares for her.  "It's the most natural thing in the world."  
  
"Aren't you going to ask me who the father is?"  
  
The midwife snickers.  "No.  The baby's my only business, not who made it."  But she can't help asking,  "Do you love him?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"That's all that matters, then."  The midwife lays a gentle hand on Sophie's midsection.  "Little ones born out of love have a much better start in the world than those who… well, those who aren't."  
  
Sophie's worldly-wise enough to know what she means:  there's been more than one child an island woman's borne as a result of cruelty by her husband or outright rape by a stranger.  "I love him,"  she says again, crossing her arms protectively in front of her.  
  
The midwife visits now and again to see how she's doing:  to make sure Old Nan's feeding her properly and, after awhile, to demand that her work schedule be slowed down.  "She can cook, or she can clean, but not both;  she's not strong enough."  
  
"Nonsense,"  Old Nan says.  "It's just a baby."  
  
"Not nonsense, and it's not 'just' anything,"  the midwife tells her with a frown.  "You can't push her like this unless you want her to lose it.  _Do_ you want her to lose it?  Really?  When this is your great-grandchild?"  
  
It's the right thing to say, and Old Nan decides that Sophie will stay in the kitchen while she engages a girl from the town to take care of the rooms, although she snips and snipes at her granddaughter over the extra expense.  
  
Sophie gives her a tired look, hoping her baby can't hear all the arguing.  "Nan, stop, please.  I've seen to the ledger for a year now, and I know you make plenty."  
  
"Hmph!"  
  
The kitchen is a far more comfortable place for Sophie than the rooms, with their grunge and grime from the lodgers and often-unpleasant smells and back-breaking work as floors are scrubbed, chamber pots are emptied, washing is done, and the beds are changed out.  It's hot in the kitchen, and she's sweaty and dirty at the end of the evening, but a basin of water and a bit of soap easily puts that right.  "Hector,"  she whispers as she carefully washes herself, noting with alarm that her navel doesn't go in anymore, but has inexplicably popped outward.  
  
The baby kicks her and she gasps;  cries out softly when it happens again.  "Are you a fighter like your father?"  she asks, drawing the wet sponge over her skin.  "Who will you look like, be like?"  
  
While standing, she can't see her feet or legs anymore and has to lie down, knees up, in order to have any chance of bathing them, but her posture brings to mind her night with Barbossa when she lay there, open and waiting, desirous of his making love to her, and she starts to cry.  
  
She remembers the delightful surprise of his warm, wet tongue examining her most secret lady's parts, and her hand slips down between her legs before she can stop it.  It's not the first time Sophie's touched herself since Barbossa's been gone, trying to recapture the bliss they shared, but even though she somehow manages to bring herself to spending, it's never quite the same and leaves her longing even more to breathe in the musky salt scent of his skin;  to taste his lips and feel his warmth.  
  
"Hector!"  she sobs, crying out the one thing she can't help repeating:  "Hector, where are you?"  
  
Once washed, Sophie doesn't bother with the decency of a nightdress, but lays in her bed naked, aching and alone.  Her pregnancy is well along and very obvious now, and she wonders why Old Nan is making an increasingly regular point of sending her to the market place where everyone can see her and comment on the bastard child she's about to bear.  
  
If Nan thinks Sophie will crack and divulge the father's name to those who insult and laugh at her, she's sorely mistaken.  
  
  
  
  
-oOo-  
-oOo-  
   
  
  
After angrily barking that she really should leave her slut of a granddaughter to have her baby as best she can, Old Nan finally goes for the midwife, leaving Sophie alone in the house and trying not to scream.  
  
It's a ferociously hot day, and she's streaming sweat, unable to find anything resembling a comfortable position on the bed;  when she finally does, a contraction takes her, rendering the whole attempt useless.  "Hector!"  she weeps once the pain lets up.  "Hector, why aren't you here?  I need you!"  
  
Sophie has to bite her tongue to avoid crying out his name once the midwife arrives.  "Hmmm,"  the woman comments, running her hand over Sophie's enormous belly.  "You've swelled up something awful."  
  
"Is my baby safe?"  Sophie cries, a tear running down her cheek.    
  
"We'll find out when it's born."  The midwife turns to Old Nan.  "I need some cushions and towels, a pair of scissors, a basin of hot water, and one of cold."  
  
"Hunh!"  But the required items are duly fetched.  
  
Sophie's labor is long and hard, with Old Nan losing her two lodgers because they don't like the screaming, which does nothing for her mood.  "It _should_ be hard, girl!"  she snaps.  "Such sinfulness…"  
  
Sophie doesn't hear her.  All she's aware of is the pain, and the fear that Barbossa's child will not be born healthy;  nor, indeed, at all.  
  
The woman passes a cool cloth over Sophie's face, trying to wipe away the sweat, but it does no good.  "There now, I know it hurts, but you can do it,"  she tells her.  "Me, I've done it seven times."  
  
"Seven?!"  Sophie rasps, just before another contraction hits and she starts shrieking.  
  
The hours drag on as Sophie struggles to birth Barbossa's child on the bed where they made it, and even the midwife starts to worry.  "I can tell the baby's turned properly,"  she tells Old Nan,  "but it's big.  The girl's well-built, with good hips, but even so, she's young and it's her first…"  
  
Sophie screams until her throat is raw, her legs shudder and her back cramps, and she pushes until she swears everything inside her will either tear to pieces or fall out.  "All right,"  the midwife finally says.  "Let's sit you up.  I think this baby's getting tired of fighting to stay in there."  
  
How she survives it, Sophie doesn't know;  not when she feels like she'll die with every contraction, every failed push.  _Hector!!  Hector, how could you do this to me?_   she wants to wail in a fury she can't control.  _If you come back, I will never, ever, EVER let you touch me again!!_  
  
Over and over, the midwife instructs her to push, and after bringing more water and towels, Old Nan leaves the house, hands over her ears, for this reminds her far too much of the birth of her own son;  a hard, painful thing if ever there was one.  
  
By now, Sophie doesn't care what she sounds like, what she looks like, what she says — just once, she shrieks out Barbossa's name, which thankfully, Old Nan isn't there to hear and the midwife is too preoccupied to take notice of — when all she wants is for her baby to be born and her agony to be over.  "Again!"  the midwife orders.  "'Tis not long to go, lovey… there, now… push!"  
  
Sophie's last scream will be echoing throughout Grantham House for the next century, suggesting to future lodgers that there may well be tortured ghosts present.  
  
The midwife grins as the baby finally slithers out of Sophie and onto the bed.  "Look:  you've a daughter!"  she says as she gives her two pats on the backside to make sure she's drawing breath in response, then washes her off and wraps her in a swaddling cloth.  "A pretty little thing, just like you."  
  
She's about to put the baby to Sophie's breast when she gets a surprise.  "Lord have mercy!  No wonder you were so big, lovey;  there's another one!"  The infant girl is laid in the bedside cradle for the moment, while two hard pushes deliver a little boy into the midwife's waiting hands.  "A son, too.  Twins:  one of each.  Listen to them howl;  it's a good sign."  
  
Sophie cries in relief for a moment, then starts to laugh.  _Hector, we have twins!_   she thinks.  _Wherever you are, do you know it?_  
  
It takes some arranging to put both babies into her arms so she can nurse them together, but presently, it's managed.  "Do you know what you want to call them?"  the midwife asks.  
  
Sophie does, indeed;  she's spent all these months thinking about what Barbossa might want his children to be named.  "Cassandra, for my girl,"  she says softly, recalling her mythology,  "and Matthew Cezar, for my boy."  
  
"Strange names,"  Old Nan tells her when she comes back in a few minutes and is told about it, but thankfully, she doesn't argue.  
  
The infants will not be baptized in the island's parish;  not when the priest called Sophie a trollop to her face and told her to stay out of his church and to keep her bastard spawn out of it as well.  "Fine!"  was all she spat at him before waddling off.  They're the children of a ship's captain ruled by the gods of sun and storm, wind and tide and sky, and the only baptism they need is with seawater by her own hand… and his, if he ever returns.  
  
Birthing the babies is only the beginning;  there's still work for Sophie to do, and by the end of it, she's completely exhausted, unable to stand or do much more than lie in her bed trying to regain some measure of strength.  "Broth, bread and butter, and milk for the next three days until her stomach settles;  after that, she can take cheese and fruit and simple cooked dishes,"  the midwife instructs Old Nan before she leaves.  "Her milk is coming in as it should, so feed her well to keep it rich and plentiful.  Two newborns to nurse at once is nothing to sneeze at."  
  
Old Nan is embarrassed by this frank talk, but she nods, nonetheless.  
  
"The afterbirth was clean and complete and she seems well, but should she grow fevered, you take her to the doctor at once;  if he won't see her, you come for me.  They're beautiful infants, and I'd not want them orphaned."  
  
Another nod, and this time, Old Nan really means it.  She's suddenly realized that these are her great-grandchildren, and she wants nothing to happen to them any more than she ever really wanted anything to happen to Sophie.  
  
A touch of shame squeezes her heart when she thinks of how badly she's treated her and how angry her son would have been if he knew.  She's set in her ways and won't be much different with Sophie herself, but with these babies, there will be no beatings, no undeserved screaming.  Bastards they may be, but they're Sophie's, and therefore of her deceased son's blood.  "Cassandra,"  she says, running her finger along the girl's ear.  "And…?"  
  
"Matthew Cezar."    
  
Old Nan wonders at Sophie's insistence upon giving both names at once, but,  "Matthew Cezar.  He really is a handsome little fellow, isn't he?"  
  
Indeed, he is, and Cassandra's a beauty, with their mother's gentle good looks and Barbossa's distinctive coloration:  they both have auburn hair and the deepest of blue eyes.  "My sweet little ones,"  Sophie whispers to them as they nestle against her bosom, too low for Old Nan to hear.  "Your father is away on his ship now, but one day, he'll come home.  He's beautiful:  a brave sea captain and a fearsome outlaw;  you'll be so proud of him when you finally meet, and he'll love you, too."  
  
As she bends to kiss the foreheads of Hector Barbossa's children, oh, how she prays this is true.

 

  
  
-oOo-  TBC  -oOo-


	3. They're Yours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After almost fifteen years, Barbossa still has not returned, and Sophie, assuming him either dead or having lost any interest in her, tries to hide her heartbreak for the sake of her children. But her memory of him never fades; she remembers their time together as clearly as if it were yesterday, loves him more than ever, and prays that he will one day miraculously come back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bloody flux is dysentery. It was endemic both at sea and on land at that time.

 

 

 

 

-oOo-

 

 

 

 

 

"Who's their father?"  Old Nan asks with a frown.  
  
Sophie's perilously close to slapping her for the question she's kept repeating for the past five years.  "Does it matter?"  she growls.  "He's not here."  
  
Sophie is 24 now, and has taken over most of the work of the inn in addition to caring for her two rambunctious children.  Her daughter, in particular, is a real handful.  "Cassie Grantham, get out of the kitchen!"  she has to keep saying.  "It's dangerous.  When you're a little older, I'll teach you how to cook, but not now."  
  
Old Nan, although she's still snappish with her granddaughter over the children's parentage, has gladly taken on the responsibility of teaching the twins their letters and maths.  "So you won't be foolish like those village children,"  she laughs at them.  "Now…"  
  
But no matter what she says to Old Nan, and no matter how angry she seems, Sophie longs desperately for Barbossa and keeps hoping he'll return.  _He's not dead_ ,  she thinks stubbornly.  _He can't be.  Perhaps he lost his ship.  Perhaps he's stranded somewhere.  I don't know what's happened, but one day he'll come back.  I know he will.  He has to!  Please, Hector, please come home!_  
  
She spends nearly every night miserably crying herself to sleep.  
  
A year or so later, Old Nan takes mortally ill with the bloody flux;  after three weeks, the old lady goes to meet her Maker and Sophie is left alone both to run the inn and to continue the twins' school lessons.  "It would be so much easier for you with a husband, especially with those sprats of yours,"  one of the fish sellers says to her one day.  "How about I call on you…"  
  
"How about you never mention it again?"  Sophie retorts.  
  
"He's not coming back, whoever he is."  
  
Sophie puts down the cloth-wrapped package she was about to buy.  "You just lost my custom,"  she informs him testily.  
  
"Bitch!"  she hears him mutter as she turns her back and leaves.  It doesn't matter;  there are eight dozen other, better sources of fish on the island.  
  
Over the years, Sophie grows quiet and withdrawn, her only contact with the outside world the market place and tavern when she must shop, and her children, whose auburn hair and midnight-blue eyes remind her so strongly of the man she has never ceased to love.  Sometimes they hear her crying at night, and occasionally, ask about their father:  who is he?  They've heard her weeping the name 'Hector' over and over;  is that him?  What did he do, and what became of him?  But the questions only provoke a fresh flow of tears from their mother and they learn to stop asking.  
  
Sophie's one joy in the world is Cassie and Mattie and watching them grow up to be sharp observers of the world around them.  Cassie, in particular, reminds her of Barbossa:  she has his quick temper and sarcastic sense of humor, packaged under a tumbling mop of red-brown hair.  Still — like him — she's not unkind with those she loves.  
  
Her twin Mattie is more like Sophie:  quiet and hard-working, with a gentle smile.  He's the studious one, far better at his schoolwork than Cassie is;  and, even when very young, he begins taking odd jobs with the townspeople, learning to do simple carpentry work and repair fishing nets.  
  
As the years pass and they grow into their teens, Sophie, now nearly 32, looks at them and feels old.  She misses Barbossa's companionship, caresses, and warmth, and she wonders what kind of father he would have been.  Any sailor is away a great deal of the time, but she can imagine him coming to the door after a long voyage, his children throwing themselves into his arms in greeting, before he comes to her and whispers of how glad he is to be home.  
  
It's wishful thinking, she tells herself.  After all this time, she has no hope of Barbossa ever returning, and can only cling to her memories and the part of himself he left with her:  their twin children.  
  
It's what Sophie's thinking as she stands stirring a pot of soup, when there's a sharp rap at the front door, followed by the bell.  "Cassie, sweetheart, get the door, will you?"  she calls.  
  
While not the maid-of-all-work Sophie was at her age, Cassandra nonetheless has some duties to perform around the inn, and answering the bell is one of them.  Straightening herself up so she will look as adult as possible, she opens the door wide to the prospective lodger:  a tall, tired man in a long grey coat and plumed hat;  a man worn and aged by sun and sea… a man who looks supremely happy to be there, and she doesn't know why.  It's just an inn, after all.  
  
Sophie comes out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron, to see about signing their new guest in, when her eyes meet his, widen, and she chokes, unable to catch her breath.  "Hector!"  she squeaks.  
  
And faints, falling in an ungraceful heap on the floor.  
  
Barbossa is kneeling beside her, cradling her with one arm and stroking her face with his free hand.  "Ohhh, Missy," he whispers.  "Miss Sophia.  I'm home, sweet.  Been so many years I've dwelt in damnation, but…"  He kisses her forehead, her temple.  "Wake up, Dove.  Please…"  Barbossa is trembling, afraid the shock of seeing him after all this time might have stopped her heart;  afraid she might have injured herself when she hit the floor.  
  
Cassie watches curiously as this strange man rocks her mother in his arms.  "You know my mum?"  
  
"Your…?"  
  
Any answer to the question is forestalled for the time being as Sophie regains consciousness and groans.  "Hector?"  she murmurs, pressing her face to his chest and breathing in his dark fragrance.  "Am I dreaming?"  
  
"Nay, darlin'.  I know I been away, but it weren't 'cause I wanted t' be.  Here now, can ye regain yer feet?"  He looks at Cassie.  "Get me a cold cloth, girl."  
  
"Who are you?"  
  
"Cloth.  Now!"  
  
While Cassie's wringing a towel out in cool water, Barbossa carries Sophie to the settee, tenderly laying her down and sitting beside her.  "I see things have much changed, Dove,"  he says quietly,  "an' ye'll no doubt wish me away once yer husband comes home…"  
  
"Husband?"  Sophie snorts.  "I have no husband."  
  
"But ye've a child:  th' girl as answered th' door.  She called ye 'Mum,' did she not?  Are ye widowed, then?"  
  
"Only if you count the sea taking away the one man I ever loved."  Sophie takes Barbossa's hand in hers and kisses it.  "Aye, I've children — twins, a boy and a girl — and for all these years, I thought their father was dead, or worse:  when he didn't come back, I thought he didn't want me anymore."  
  
Barbossa still doesn't comprehend what she's trying to tell him.  "'Twould be a fool of a man as would desert ye…"  
  
A flood of tears bursts from Sophie's eyes.  "But you did!"  
  
_That_ finally sinks in.  "Ye mean… yer little uns…?"  
  
"They're yours, Hector.  Yours."  
  
 

 

  
  
-oOo-  TBC  -oOo-


	4. He's Been Away For Awhile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barbossa comes to terms with the fact that he's a father, his thoughts being a whirl of utter delight and panicked terror. And his son learns to accept his father for what he is: a pirate with a price on his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Jorey" was Barbossa's mother's maiden name. The Jorey sisters — eight of them — plus their mother and _her_ sisters, were renowned in Porthpyra (Polperro, Cornwall) for their beauty, having rich auburn hair and beautiful blue eyes ranging through every shade from light to dark; strong traits that Hector and all his siblings inherited (his father had grey-blue eyes). Although Sophie's eyes are dark, she still carries a blue gene from her mother, allowing the blue from Barbossa to dominate.
> 
>  _Bearn_ is a Cornish/English dialect word that Barbossa sometimes uses for baby or child, similar to the Scottish _bairn._
> 
> The "neighbors to Tia Dalma" is a reference to all the women Barbossa slept with in _What Dreams May Come_ in the effort to assure himself that his masculine equipment still worked after being brought back from the dead. Understandable, I suppose, but nothing he wants Sophie ever to know about.
> 
> Cassandra and Matthew Cezar are fraternal twins who have a strong familial resemblance, but are not identical; hence, the difference in their height. Even if the twins were identical, both Barbossa and Sophie held the belief of their time: that having twins meant she conceived twice in one go… which, in fact, she did.
> 
> Barbossa gets awful sick hangovers when he drinks too much, which is why he limits his strong alcohol consumption while at sea, as a drunk or otherwise incapacitated captain is liable to get his crew killed during a battle or bad weather.

 

 

 

-oOo-

 

 

 

  
  
"They're yours, Hector.  Yours."  
  
Of everything that could have happened in his life, far and away the last thing Barbossa ever expected was that he'd have children.  Perhaps a bastard or two left behind with some nameless whore, but not this;  not a handsome brood got with a good woman.  _I'm Da t' twins?!_   he splutters inwardly, recalling the night in question so clearly that he starts to harden.  _Th' seed I planted within ye… it took root, not just once, but twice?_   Then, composing himself,  "How old be they now, Dove?"  
  
"Just turned fourteen.  That one sweet night we had… they're what came of it;  the only thing I had left of you when you disappeared."  Sophie's clinging to Barbossa in fear that he might vanish again.  "I never told Nan who their father was because I was afraid she'd bar you from the house if you ever came back."  
  
Barbossa rolls his eyes and huffs at the mention of Old Nan.  "Where be th' old bat, anyway?"  
  
Sophie manages a bit of a snicker.  "Dead these past seven years, so I'm the innkeeper now.  You want any extra candles:  you ask me."  
  
Wet towel in hand, Cassie's been hanging back, trying to hear some of the whispered conversation, but Barbossa wiggles his fingers to beckon her near.  "Take off yer cap,"  he says as he takes the cloth.  
  
She looks to her mother for permission to accede to this odd request.  "It's all right;  take it off,"  Sophie instructs her.  "I know what he's looking for."  
  
Barbossa gasps softly as Cassie's lengthy hair is uncovered:  it's wavy, dark russet, framing bewitching deep blue eyes;  a perfect cross between Sophie and himself, and it would be pointless to deny that he fathered her;  pointless, nor, he finds, does he wish to.  "Ye've th' color of a Jorey, through an' through,"  he tells Cassie,  "but wi' th' beauty of yer dear mother."  
  
The girl's mouth drops wide open in an expression reminiscent of his oldest sister Eseld whenever she was caught by surprise.  "Mum?"  
  
"Go get your brother,"  Sophie says.  "He's up by the well."  
  
While Cassie's gone, she rests in Barbossa's arms, hoping it won't be the last time she ever feels them as she wonders what he thinks.  But she needn't have worried, for it was merely the surprise that stopped the hungry kisses he now starts to give her.  "I been in such hell, Dove, an' thought ne'er t' escape, but by th' powers I'm home now.  If ye want me still, I'm home…"  
  
The bang of the door stops him going any further, and he finds himself confronted by a tall young boy with the same auburn hair and striking dark blue eyes as his sister.  He's about to ask his name when Sophie stops him and gets shakily off the settee.  "I thought this day would never come,"  she say, wiping away her tears,  "but… Hector, this is Matthew Cezar…"  
  
"Cezar?  Ye gave him a Portuguese name!"  The gratitude in Barbossa's eyes is indescribable, both for himself and for his long-dead father.  
  
"… and Cassandra.  Your son and daughter."  
  
Barbossa chokes up upon hearing this, for Sophie clearly put a lot of thought into the choice of her — their — children's names.  "Cassandra were a sister t' Troy's Prince Hector.  I do thankee for that, Dove."  
  
Sophie clasps Barbossa's arm, pressing close to him.  "I gave them the small names of Mattie and Cassie, though you may wish to call them something else.  Angels, this is your father, Captain Hector Barbossa.  He's… he's been away for awhile."  
  
The children are polite, if diffident, for their mother has only rarely spoken of the man who fathered them, and wept every time she did.  But Mattie's curiosity soon takes him over, and,  "Do you have a ship?"  he asks.  "Is it here?"  
  
Barbossa nods.  "Aye, of course, lad.  She be called th' _Black Pearl_ , an' she's anchored a-ways offshore.  Look…"  He takes the boy to the window.  "See her black sails an' fine figurehead?"  He feels Sophie at his back, their daughter at her side.  "Well now,"  he laughs, turning towards them.  "Seems as I have two ladies t' look after now 'stead of jus' one.  Let me look at ye, girl."  Hector puts roughened hands against Cassie's face and tips it up, looking into her eyes and examining her fine, soft complexion.  "Aye indeed:  ye've a Jorey woman's color, but 'tis Miss Sophia's sweet looks I see in ye."  
  
Cassie raises her eyebrows at him.  "What's a Jorey?"  
  
"That were th' name of me own mum's clan."  The captain lets her go.  "Yer Gran were called Melyor Jorey afore she wed Martinho Barbossa, an' she were th' prettiest of many sisters.  Shame I couldn't have her splendid looks m'self, but at least, I got her russet hair an' blue eyes an' passed 'em t' you."  
  
"I love your looks,"  Sophie whispers.  
  
The sound of her voice reminds Barbossa that there's a private conversation yet to be had — the first of several — and although he'd love to remain in the company of his children, there will be time for that later once he's said something important to Sophie.  "I'm needin' t' have words alone wi' yer mum, if ye don't mind,"  he tells them.  "Run along, now, an' we'll fetch ye back when we're done."  
  
Their first diffidence past, both children decide that they rather like him, and they grin at their newly-met father before going outside to gossip about him.  "Oh darlin', I'd ha' been here had I known,"  Barbossa says, taking Sophie's hands.  "If 'twere possible in th' slightest, I'd ha' been here for ye."  His heart is twisting and twirling in circles, thinking of what he missed and why he missed it and how he can never tell her the reason.  "I'm much likin' th' names ye gave 'em,"  he goes on,  "but what other name do they bear?"  
  
"Grantham,"  Sophie answers.  "It wasn't my right to give them yours, not if you wouldn't want it;  not if you couldn't believe that they're of your blood and no one else's."  
  
Barbossa kisses her lips over and over before standing back and saying, "I see it plain, Dove:  in their eyes, in th' color of their hair, in how much they remind me of me own mother.  When I look at 'em, I see her gazin' back at me an' smilin' t' know she got grandchildren at last from her only son."  
  
"Do you not see me in them as well?"  
  
"Course I do, sweet, of course!  I see us both — though 'tis fortunate they got yer nose an' not mine! — an' I know for certain…"  Barbossa's hand slips over Sophie's belly as he wishes mightily that he could have seen her, heavy with the children they created together during that one priceless night he's held so close to him all these years.  "… they're of m' seed an' of m' blood."  He smiles, and a rare blush touches his cheeks.  "Shall we agree for them t' bear m' name, then?  Shall they wish it?  Name or no, I'll acknowledge 'em as me own in any case, but I should like if they'd now be Cassandra an' Matthew Cezar Barbossa, as befits th' fine progeny ye bore me."  
  
A tear dribbles down Sophie's cheek, but for the first time in years, it's one of happiness.  "I would like that more than anything."  
  
Barbossa embraces her tightly and rocks her before murmuring,  "Shall we have 'em back in here;  tell 'em what's what?"  
  
"They're used to being called Grantham,"  Sophie says, because she feels she must warn him.  "If they don't want to change it, please don't be hurt."  
  
"I know.  I know.  But it don't change me wish t' acknowledge 'em as mine all th' same."  
  
Sophie goes to the door, ready to call the twins back inside, but Barbossa changes his mind and stops her.  "Not jus' yet,"  he whispers, pressing his lips to her ear as he slips off her cap.  "I been long gone an' so lonely for ye, an' I have such a desire in me that I cannot stand it.  Will ye not give me a proper warm welcome afore we get th' two of 'em snoopin' around?"  
  
"It's still daytime, Hector..."  It's an automatic reply she makes because she knows all the polite conventions even as she truly doesn't care.  
  
Barbossa knows that perfectly well.  "So?  D' ye really mind it?  Keep yer chemise on if ye must, sweet, but I'd have ye soft an' warm 'mongst th' blankets an' holdin' me tight, right now…"  He lifts Sophie's skirts and slides his hands beneath them, grinning when she catches her breath at the intimate touch.  "Mayhap we'll make ourselves another bearn this day;  how's that?"  
  
Daylight or not, Sophie's not missing this chance, for she cannot be certain she won't lose him again.  "Ohhh…!  I should like that, Hector, and I'll give you all the children you want;  a dozen, if you wish it.  But right now…"  She's dreamt of their one night every moment since then;  woken up crying for her beloved and wishing he was in the bed beside her, and she's not passing up what might be her only chance to be so close to him again.  "I don't care if they do come back and hear us;  only please, _please_ , Hector… please…"  
  
She cries throughout the whole time he beds her, but it's from neither pain nor shyness;  rather, it's from fifteen years of pent-up longing finally being released.  "I'm so sorry,"  she snuffles.  "I'm not meaning to fuss…"  
  
What she can't see is that tears have begun to flow down Barbossa's face and soak into her hair;  the tears he couldn't shed while under the curse.  "Dove… Dove, it don't matter a bit… m' beautiful Dove…"  
  
Sophie laughs, then cries again.  "You're home… you're really home…"  
  
Barbossa kisses her face, her hands, her neck;  touches everything to assure himself that she's real.  "Sophia,"  he says once they're lying entwined and quiet, having spent themselves out on each other.  "Sophia, don't e'er think for a moment that I weren't longin' with all me soul t' be with ye. When a man's done somethin' that pitches him int' Hades an' fears he be damned forever, th' only thing as keeps him from losin' his mind is thought of th' one as cares an' waits for him."  
  
"Me?"  
  
"'Course, darlin':  you.  When last I left, an' though ye could not hear me, still, I asked that ye wait for me… an' ye did."  
  
Though Barbossa the Sailor is rough and unyielding, and Barbossa the Pirate likes to think of himself as a man needing nothing and no one, Barbossa the Lover and Companion knows that's not true.  And now, added to his many faces, he will be Barbossa the Father;  a role that will take some getting used to, and he hopes Sophie will help him.  "Eh,"  he says softly, nuzzling her ear.  "Ye think p'raps we should get 'em back here now?"  
  
"You think you should put your clothes on first?"  Sophie sasses him.  "Or not?"  
  
Barbossa smacks her backside, grinning at her soft _Oooohh!_ and making a mental note that she likes the sting and the handprint he leaves. "Keep talkin' like that, lass, an' I'll bed ye again;  this time so hard that yer yellin'll be heard all th' way int' town, an' t' hell with who's waitin' or watchin'!"  
  
   
  
   
  
  
-oOo-  
-oOo-  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Cassie looks in puzzlement at her mother, wondering why she's so flushed and happy, though she knows it has something to do with Barbossa, who seems just the same, while Mattie has to conceal some embarrassment;  being a boy and not nearly so innocent, he _does_ know what this probably betokens.  "We've a question to ask you,"  Sophie begins, slipping her hand into Barbossa's.  "All your life, you've borne my name because I couldn't… well, it wasn't right for me to give you… I mean…"  
  
"What she means is that I were wanderin' at th' far ends of th' world an' not here t' say I'm yer father,"  Barbossa interrupts when it becomes clear that Sophie's too nervous to go on.  "I daresay she's been goin' through her own sort of woman's hell for that."  Sophie's hand, workworn though it is, looks so fragile and delicate in his rough one, and perfectly at home within it.  "As I look at ye, I've no trace of doubt that ye're of m' blood, I'll acknowledge ye as mine t' whoever'll listen, an' I… _we_ … were wonderin' if ye'd consent t' bearin' m' name as yer own."  
  
Mattie and Cassie might be used to being called Grantham, but they're also wearily, unhappily used to the constant mocking they get about being bastards;  about having no father to be proud of them and say they're his.  "Really?"  Cassie squeaks.  
  
"Aye, lassie.  That is… if ye wish it.  I'd ne'er force Miss Sophia nor her children t' do anythin' they do not want."  
  
"To have a real name?"  Cassie looks up at Mattie — the two of them inherited something else that makes Barbossa smile:  the height difference he himself has with Sophie — excitement clearly evident on both their faces.  "I mean… our father's name?  Your name?"  
  
Barbossa nods.  "P'raps ye might like t' think about it."  
  
"Think?"  Mattie says as he hooks his arm around his sister's neck, takes her cap off, and ruffles her hair.  "Who needs to think?"  To meet and know his father has been a dream of Mattie's ever since he was able to realize that something important was missing from his life — something that other children had — and though he loves his mother very much, he knows hers is not the name he should properly have.  
  
Offer made and gladly accepted, Sophie tells the twins there's again something she'd like to speak privately to their father about before they go any further and make it official.  "Where were you?"  she cries once she closes the bedroom door and they're alone again.  "For so many years… why did you never come back or at least let me know where you were?  You could have sent word;  you could have written…"  She's wringing her hands, having grown agitated now that the first flush of their lovemaking has passed.  "I'm old now, and not what you remember…"  
  
"Old?!  Ye bain't a'tall old, Missy,"  Barbossa says, trying to comfort and hush her.  "Ye bain't anythin' but th' maiden as kept me from goin' mad when I were in such a deep, dark pit that I'd no hope t' get out an' couldn't stand it, an' ye're th' most beautiful thing I e'er seen or e'er will see, then an' now.  I thought of ye ev'ry day an' wisht as I could've been here."  
  
"Why weren't you?  Did you think I'd not want you?  Hector, Hector, don't you know how desperately I missed you?"  
  
What does he say to this?  Barbossa wonders.  How can he possibly tell her of the stupid thing he did;  that he was cursed for nigh unto a decade and fit for no woman, let alone her?  How is it possible to explain that he met Death and dwelt within that realm for a year, two years — he still doesn't know —  and then was resurrected in service to the goddess of the seas, unable to return home until his quest was done?  She'd never believe such things, and would think them shabby excuses;  perhaps for his taking up with a whole string of lovers in her absence.  _An' I'm not wantin' her e'er t' know about all th' women what were neighbors t' Tia Dalma, but I had cause for 'em;  p'raps not th' best cause, but what should I have done if I found out… well, that m' parts didn't work anymore?_   "An' I, you,"  he begins.  "I know as ye cannot believe there were a good reason for it an' I would not blame ye, but if ye e'er cared for me, Dove, even a little, then please… know that it be th' God's truth:  that there were somethin' monstrous dreadful as kept me from ye."  Barbossa holds Sophie tightly, trying to convey through his touch that he will never again let her go;  not if he has the slightest thing to say about it.  "But that ghastly hell be o'er now an' I've come home."  
  
Home.  _Home_.  It's the finest word Barbossa can imagine, encompassing as it does the innkeeper, his newly-discovered children, and the kind of warm, loving comfort meant just for him that he's not had in nearly fifteen years.  
  
"I know as ye'll want t' talk some more an' that ye'll have questions t' ask an' tears t' shed,"  he goes on,  "but please…"  Barbossa plants a kiss on Sophie's lips, closing his eyes for a moment as he savors the taste of her, sweeter than any apple.  "Please, Dove, don't tell me ye're afeared t' accept me back."  
  
"You think I'd push you away after praying for your return all this time?"  Sophie steps back and brings her fists down on Barbossa's chest, but it's gentle and meant only to tell him one thing:  _Are you crazy?_  
  
This makes Barbossa so happy that he comes perilously close to sobbing in relief;  as it is,  "Are we settled, then?"  he asks.  
  
"Just one thing."  
  
"Aye?"  
  
"I, um… I never had Cassie and Mattie baptized,"  Sophie says,  "and I don't want them to be;  not in that church;  not when the priest called them names."  
  
"Oh?"  The corners of Barbossa's mouth turn down and his eyes darken.  "Like what?"  
  
"The usual:  bastard and the like.  He's a sanctimonious prick."  
  
"Hunh, those churchy types usually are.  Ye want me t' have a word?"  
  
'A word' will undoubtedly come with the point of a sword or the business end of a pistol attached, and Sophie shakes her head.  "No, no… and it's not that.  It's… well, I baptized them myself, in the ocean, when Nan wasn't looking."  
  
This is perfection, as far as Barbossa's concerned, and he says so.  "There could be hardly a more 'ppropriate place."  
  
"And I want you to do it, too."  
  
"What?  Me?"  
  
"When they get their new name,"  Sophie says,  "I want them to be on the beach, baptized by their father in seawater, in the name of tide and wind and sky.  You're a ship's captain and that's your Trinity…"  
  
This is one more thrill out of many in the day, Barbossa thinks, and,  "Would be me honor, Dove, t' bestow m' name afore the heavens an' th' expanse of the sea's waters.  Whene'er ye want t' do it, I'll be ready."

  
  
-oOo-  
-oOo-  
  
  
  
  
But not everything is so smooth or settled in Barbossa's mind as all that, and the following evening, he goes into town to the tavern, intending to either calm or exacerbate his fears, according to whatever a bottle of rum would have it.  _A father, at my age?_   he thinks as he takes a swig.  _A father a'tall?  Bloody hell!  I'm a pirate, for fuckin' Chrissakes, an' bain't cut out t' be so domestic;  they'd be better off without me!_  
  
It takes a second bottle and getting very drunk before it occurs to Barbossa to wonder if he'd really be better off without them, or they without him, or if he's just afraid.  
  
Leaving the noisome confines of the tavern, he staggers down to the beach, away from the docks, and sits down in the sand, thinking about his own father.  _He were a smuggler, true, but a fine Da noneth'less_ ,  he recalls.  _Always had a smile for us, an' kind words;  he were proud we're his an' he ne'er beat us.  Am I so diff'rent that I cannot be as he was?  I've a handsome son, a beautiful daughter, an' a sweet lover as cares for me above all others… will ye be such a fool, Hector Barbossa, as t' turn yer back on 'em?  What are ye:  scared?  Would ye break Sophia's heart a second time, an' for what?_  
  
Barbossa puts his hands over his face.  _Aye, I'm scared_ ,  he finally admits.  _An' 'twould be a simple thing t' walk away, but it bain't worth what I'd lose.  I don't e'er give up me treasure, an' they're th' finest I have._  
  
He's too drunk to move and falls asleep where he is, waking only when the tide starts to come in and the water's lapping at his face.  "Fuck!"  he coughs, looking at the light and realizing that Sophie must be up and making breakfast for her lodgers… and she'll be worrying.  _I ne'er had a woman as worried o'er me b'fore._  
  
It's a good feeling, to know she cares so much about him, and Barbossa rushes home, willing his stomach to stop objecting to last night's rum, as he'd really rather not get sick before he has a chance to give Sophie a nice, deep kiss.  He doesn't quite make it, though, dropping to his knees in the scrubby grass and vomiting tiredly on the ground.  "Ughhh!"  he groans, spitting.  "Fine figure ye cut now, ye great arse!"  
  
But it's just as well, or the smell of cooking food might have dropped him in the doorway, green and gagging.  "Hector?"  Sophie says, coming out of the kitchen.  
  
"Might ye bring me some lemon water, Dove?"  he asks.  "I bain't feelin' so well."  
  
Sophie fetches him a tankard, then stands tenderly stroking his hair and his arm as he drinks it to get the horrible taste out of his mouth.  "You're all wet,"  she observes.  
  
"Slept on th' beach."  
  
"Why?"  
  
It's not a demand, but only a plea to tell her why he preferred the sand to sleeping with her, and Barbossa wraps his arms around her.  "Things be goin' so fast for me,"  he murmurs.  "I don't know… I had need t' be by m'self for a bit."  
  
"I know.  I know."  Sophie's arms tighten about his waist;  then she pats his back.  "Look, why don't you go upstairs and lie down;  get some proper sleep?  I'll bring you a warmed sheet to wrap yourself up in."  
  
"I'd rather ye bring yer own warm self."  
  
Sophie chuckles softly.  "Once I've fed my lodgers, you can have whatever you want… although I think a bath might be in order first.  You're all sandy."  
  
"Afeared I'll get sand inside ye?"  Barbossa teases.  
  
Sophie hadn't thought of that, but,  "I'd rather you didn't."  
  
The clomp of footsteps on the stairs breaks them apart:  Mattie, on his way out to chop wood for the hearth.  "Don't look too close at me, boy,"  Barbossa groans at him, turning away.  "Last night were a bit rough an' I bain't at me best."  
  
Mattie shrugs;  it's not as though he's never seen an island man in poor shape after a night's carousing.  "At least you came home."  
  
"What, ye thought I wouldn't?"  Barbossa is taken aback, and afraid he misunderstands what he was doing.  "'Twere only drink, nothin' else.  Only drink.  You'd be in a bottle, too, if ye found yer life flipped o'er an' changed so's ye don't recognize it!"  
  
"Hector!"  Sophie hisses.  
  
But Mattie only laughs and rolls his eyes.  "You think it's easy for us?  It takes fifteen years for you to come back and…"  He stops and looks at his mother.  "You have any idea what she went through waiting for you?  How much she cried?  I just hope you appreciate what a wonderful woman you have and how much she loves you!"  
  
Barbossa's not used to being barked at, and were it anyone else, he might be drawing his sword, but this is his son and he doesn't want to make the boy hate him.  "I do, young Matt,"  he says, his voice suddenly much softer.  "There's things as ye don't know about an' that I cannot tell, but one thing I _will_ tell ye:  yer Mum means more t' me than ye can realize, an' so do th' bearns I gave her.  Ne'er doubt that."  
  
There's a tense moment;  then Mattie nods.  "I'm going up the hill for some wood and water;  you want to come with me?"  
  
What Barbossa really wants is to collapse into bed and sleep for the next half day, but he knows this is an opportunity he'd best not pass up.  "Aye, lad.  Lead on."  
  
  
  
  
-oOo-  
-oOo-  
  
  
  
  
  
Barbossa recognizes the spot where Mattie stops, and it makes him smile in remembrance.  "I used to come up here of a night long ago when I'd visit th' inn,"  he tells his son.  "I'd sit on th' rocks an' watch th' town.  Looks rather diff'rent from here than when ye're in it."  
  
This observation makes Mattie grin.  "Doesn't it, though?"  He nods toward the well.  "I'll chop if you haul the water.  Unless you want to do the chopping."  
  
"What, an' take me foot off?"  Barbossa snorts.  "I'm a sailor, not a landsman.  'Tis only ship's axes I know, an we don't use 'em for kindlin';  not like this.  Oh, I could prob'ly hack it in half with m' sword, but 'twould blunt th' blade."  
  
"You're a pirate, aren't you?"  Mattie says bluntly.  "Mother won't deny it;  do you?"  
  
"Nay, lad."  This seems like a good time to square things with Mattie, and Barbossa decides to explain the course of his life.  "I started in th' merchant marine a lifetime ago, but it didn't get me nothin';  not even learnin' all as I wanted t' know 'bout workin' on a ship.  When I were nineteen or twenty, me ship were fired upon an' attacked by a pirate vessel, an' I had a choice:  sign Articles, or be set adrift without hope of e'er being picked up.  So I signed an' ain't ne'er looked back since."  
  
This seems perfectly reasonable to Mattie, although,  "Is the law after you?"  
  
"'Course.  Been after me e'er since then, an' th' price went up once I had me own ship."  
  
"What's the reward?"  
  
"You thinkin' t' turn me in?"  
  
"Of course not.  Just curious."  
  
Barbossa grins.  "10,001 guineas, alive or dead, last I heard.  Almos' got meself hanged a couple of times, but I be as good at escapin' death as I am at pilotin' a ship… an' I'm goddamn good."  
  
"That's a lot of money."  
  
"Well… 'tis only a fraction of what I'm intendin' t' give yer mother for her keep — an' yers — for I'm not likin' th' thought of her havin' t' scrape a livin' out of th' inn, fine though it is."  Barbossa hauls a bucket of water out of the well, then a second.  "Let me take this back,"  he says as he hooks them to a yoke, then settles it over his shoulders,  "an' then I'll return an' we'll be continuin' this conversation…"  
  
  
  
  
-oOo-  
-oOo-  
  
  
  
  
"Thank you for talking to Mattie today,"  says Sophie as she sits down on the bed.  "He likes you very much, you know."  
  
"He wanted t' know th' price on me head."  
  
Sophie laughs.  "Did you tell him?"  
  
"'Course I did;  why not?"  
  
"I don't know.  _I_ never asked."  
  
"Do you want to know it?"  
  
"No."  Sophie strokes Barbossa's scarred cheek.  "All the money in the world would be worthless to me if you were hanged."  
  
"Oh, Dove, Dove, come here…"  Barbossa draws Sophie into a protective embrace.  "I ain't goin' nowhere, law or no.  That be why our boy asked, I b'lieve:  he wanted t' know I won't leave him now I've come home."  
  
"Mm."  Sophie nestles closer.  "Cassie, too;  as I look at her, I know she's coming to love you, and losing her father would tear her apart."  
  
"D' ye think I'll be a good father?"  
  
"I think you already are."  
  
"Then… shall ye wish t' lie with me an' mayhap conceive within ye another child?"  
  
Sophie catches her breath, for while she offered her body for this very purpose, she never expected Barbossa to actually ask.  "Oh, Hector… Hector…"  She kisses him;  smiles.  "I want you to try."

 

  
  
  
-oOo-  TBC  -oOo-


	5. In Calypso's Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A unique baptism takes place, and Sophie has something to tell Barbossa when he next returns home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can just hear some Barbossa fans saying he's being far too kind and accommodating; that he should be nothing but villainous. Nay, says I. The historical record shows that the worst people often have families to whom they are devoted — wives, children, and other relatives — and while he is certainly a criminal, I still wouldn't place Barbossa amongst the Jack the Ripper class. This is a man very much in love; but although he will never say it aloud, that emotion still informs his behavior toward Sophie and the twins. He's hardly perfect: he has those moments when he frets over what kind of father and companion he is (and sometimes doesn't care), feels sorely put-upon by domestic responsibilities and worries, and is therefore relieved to be at sea where he needn't face up to them, at least for awhile. Even so, he has immense pride in his woman and children, believes they reflect well on him, cares deeply about them, and will defend them to the death against any threat or insult. Once again, because it bears repeating: Barbossa is not a flat cartoon without emotions or a complete set of life experiences, and while he's tough and very often cruel in his role of captain and pirate, when he's at home surrounded by those he loves and who love him, life is very different.

 

 

 

-oOo-  
  


 

  
  
  
It's a warm, sunny day when Barbossa takes his little family down to the beach, away from prying eyes, for the ceremony that Sophie's requested and both children are looking forward to.  "Ye need only put yer bare feet in th' water,"  he tells them.  "Come, come."  
  
He tells them about Calypso, goddess of the seas, whose good graces helped him to come home to them.  "Sometimes she'll be in a fury, an' sometimes calm an' quiet,"  he explains, wetting his hands in the water and pressing them to Mattie and Cassie's foreheads,  "an' as a sailor, I seen both.  But I ask her now:  t' be kind an' gentle, t' watch o'er ye, an' not let ye come t' any harm from sea or storm."  He thinks of Calypso in her guise of Tia Dalma;  sees her nodding in approval.  "In Calypso's name I baptize ye, Matthew Cezar an' Cassandra, m' son an' daughter got wi' Sophia Grantham."  
  
Barbossa sees Sophie hanging back, and beckons her forward.  "Slippers an' stockin's off, Dove.  Ye must be introduced t' Calypso, too."  
  
"Me?"  
  
How shall he tell her that the goddess knew about her from the start, even before she was returned to her ocean realm?  "She'll want t' meet ye:  a sailor's woman an' mother of his children."  
  
Sophie slips her shoes off and peels away her stockings;  barefoot, she wades into the water to stand in front of Barbossa, her back to him and his arms around her.  "Ye brung me home, Calypso,"  he whispers,  "t' this fine woman, an' for that, I owe ye a debt that I cannot repay."  
  
A gentle wave rises up and falls back, and Barbossa can almost hear Tia Dalma's voice admonishing him:  _Treat her wit' kindness, Barbossa.  If ye'd repay me, den love well dat gentle Dove an' treat her mos' kindly._  
  
_Aye_ ,  he says silently.  _I understand_.    
  
The family troops back up to Grantham House, where a new lodger is just coming up to the door.  "No, no, it's open,"  Sophie tells him, flicking her wrist at the CLOSED sign.  "Come in and sign the ledger and I'll see you to your room;  three meals are included in the price, and lunch will be in two hours or so."  
  
Hearing this, Barbossa decides that he'd best gift her with the gold he has set aside as soon as possible, so she might at least have the choice of continuing to run the inn, or retiring if she wants to.  "Ye work too hard,"  he says as she sets to preparing the midday meal.  
  
"I've always worked like this."  Sophie grins at him.  "If I hadn't, I might never have met you."  
  
"Ne'er thought of that."  
  
"Oh, you'd have met some other maid somewhere…"  
  
"Wouldn't ha' cared 'bout another maid somewhere."  Barbossa kisses Sophie's temple, his beard tickling her ear.  "B'sides, ain't a woman can cook like you do — not even yer Nan — an' that be th' truth."  
  
  
  
  
-oOo-  
-oOo-  
  
  
  
  
"The Bible I had that ye might remember,"  Barbossa says later that afternoon,  "I lost it long ago, or I'd put their names in it."  
  
Sophie smiles at him.  "I've kept my Nan's Bible;  if you don't mind it being hers, you can use that.  Their names are already in it, but you can change them."  
  
"'Tain't hers, now;  'tis yers… an' if ye'd bring it here an' give me a quill…"  
  
The innkeeper fetches the family Bible, pointing out her own father's name to Barbossa before she gives him a quill and ink.  "Shall we have them here while you do this?"  
  
Duly summoned, Mattie and Cassie watch while their father sits at the head of the dinner table and neatly, respectfully draws a thin line through _Grantham_ — a name he loves as belonging to Sophie, but which should not be borne by his offspring as if their father would not own them — replacing it with _Barbossa, son and daughter of Hector Peran with his lady Sophia_.  "There, now,"  he says as he blots it and closes the book.  "'Twas always known who yer mother is, but now yer father's come home t' make it known whose blood ye also bear.  Anyone wants t' dispute it, jus' send 'em t' me."  
  
  
   
  
-oOo-  
-oOo-  
  
  
  
  
  
"You can't stay, can you?"  Sophie sighs quietly into the darkness a few nights later.  "You'll be leaving soon, and I may never see you again."  
  
Barbossa turns over on his side and runs his fingers through her hair.  "I'm a cap'n, Dove,"  he answers,  "an' I cannot be long from th' sea;  ye've always known that.  But I swear t' you this:  what I did that kept me away so long… 'twill not happen again, for I've visited th' lowest circles of hell once, an' by God A'mighty, I'll be damned if I e'er go back.  I've home an' fam'ly now, an' I'll always return to ye… t' all of ye."  He absently rubs Sophie's breast, smiling to himself at her faint 'Mmm' of pleasure.  "I know ye thought I deserted ye, but how shall I desert th' woman as b'longs t' me?"  
  
"Do _you_ belong to _me?_   Did you ever?"  
  
Barbossa knew she would ask this.  He's been waiting for her to ask it.  It's a hard question to answer aloud, while not being at all hard in the privacy of his heart and his mind.  _Aye, m' soft little Dove, m' sweet Sophia,_   Barbossa thinks.  _I been yers always, since th' day I first clapped eyes on ye, a shy little thing peekin' at me from th' kitchen.  I mus' confess that I were ne'er faithful in body, for 'tis th' way of a sailor who's too much away from home;  away from th' woman as gives him his truest comfort.  But in mind, in soul, in heart…_  
  
"I think ye know th' answer t' that, Dove,"  is all he says, embracing Sophie as tightly as he can.    
  
  
  
  
-oOo-  
-oOo-  
  
  
  
  
Barbossa will no more be taking his children down to the docks when he leaves than he will take the innkeeper Sophie.  He wants to hear no ugly remarks made about either lover or daughter, for he knows he'd kill any man who spoke of them with less than respect… and these are not men who show respect to women.  As for Mattie… while he has not hidden the fact that he's a pirate who makes his living in dangerous and unlawful ways — not surprising for the son of a smuggler, as he told him — he'd rather not put the idea of the boy's following in the family footsteps in his head while he's still so young.  In a couple of years, if Mattie's insistent, perhaps it will be a different matter and Hector will deal with that possibility then.  
  
He tries not to think of how heartbreaking it would be to lose his handsome young scion to the ravages of sea or storm as he lost his own father;  or worse, to the guns and ropes of the Royal Navy.  
  
Sophie has a lovely surprise waiting for him after breakfast:  a warm, fresh bath, where she scrubs him from top to toe, dressing him in the new shirt she's made for him, as well as clean stockings.  "I beat as much dirt as I could out of everything else,"  she says as she kneels before him, first tying up the hem of his shirt between his thighs, then holding his breeches out so he can step into them.  
  
When she begins buttoning his waistcoat, Barbossa puts his hands over hers, overcome by a sweet memory he thinks of often:  when he teased her by sliding several buttons from their holes, slowly, one at a time, watching her excitement grow the more of him she saw.  "D' ye remember when ye first came t' me?"  he whispers.  "I know 'twere long ago, but I remember ev'ry bit of it, an' th' mem'ry kept me company during all those years away."  
  
"Am I now what you remembered?"  Sophie asks, trembling.  
  
"An' more, Dove.  An' so much more…"  
  
The waistcoat comes off, the breeches are thrown aside, and the shirt's hem is untied so Barbossa can take Sophie to him one last time before he has to leave.  
  
Cassandra snickers when Sophie comes downstairs with her cap askew, her chemise and gown damp with sweat, and Barbossa's scent upon her.  "Don't they ever stop?"  she mutters to Mattie.  
  
He cackles;  the same rough cackle Barbossa has, but a younger, more charming sound;  just as Hector himself might have sounded at his age.  "Ahh, let 'em alone, Cass,"  he tells her.  "Mum's been thinking of him all these years, and now she's just about to lose him again.  It must be so bloody awful to be the wife of a sailor."  
  
"But she's not his wife,"  Cassie reminds him.  "He never married her."  
  
It's something she broaches to Barbossa the next time he comes home, a little over four months later.  "Papa,"  she says, taking his arm and leading him up to the flat rocks by the well where they can sit down and speak alone.  "Will you answer me something?"  
  
"'Course, lass.  What is it ye have t' ask?"  
  
"Why don't you want to marry Mum?"  
  
Whatever Barbossa expected her question to be, it wasn't this.  "I… I…"  
  
Cassie's not letting him off the hook;  not without an answer.  "She wants you to.  She'd give anything if you'd ask her."  
  
"Did she tell ye that?"  
  
"She doesn't have to."  Cassie's face is sad as she looks up at him, wondering if all men are such blind fools.  "She won't say it, but I know she wonders why she's good enough to keep house and have babies for you, but not good enough to marry.  Why we can have your name, but not her.  Don't you know how much she loves you?  She'd give her life for you;  don't you see that?"  
  
Cassie's sharp and observant, and not saying anything Barbossa hasn't already thought of.  "I do, lass.  Lord knows I do."  
  
"You don't already have a wife somewhere else, do you?"  
  
Barbossa chokes at the very thought.  "God A'mighty, girl, what put that kind of idea in yer head?  I ain't ne'er had a woman like yer worthy Mum in all me years!"  
  
"Then why won't you marry her?"  
  
The question makes Barbossa very nervous, for if he acts on it the way the innkeeper wants — the way his daughter wants, and no doubt his son — it will change his life forever.  
  
But then,  _Did havin' children not change it already?_   he thinks.  _T' know m' blood'll survive th' generations, an' 'tis m' dearest Sophia what made it so…_ "Ye must not worry what be 'twixt yer Mum an' me,"  he tries to reassure Cassandra.  "'Twill all sort itself out in time;  that, I promise."

 

  
  
-oOo-  
-oOo-

 

 

A smiling Sophie takes Barbossa's hand as they're lying in bed that night, naked and sweating after the kind of lovemaking he can only dream of when he's away.  "I'm with child again, Hector,"  she whispers.  
  
Barbossa starts.  "What?"  
  
"Baby.  You and me.  I think it was that very last night we spent together the last time you were here."  Putting her hand between his legs, she rubs him softly and gives him an impudent squeeze.  "Didn't know you were so potent, did you?"  
  
Barbossa silently thanks Tia Dalma, for it's clear now she's fully restored him and then some.  "An' this time, I'll not stay gone so long, for I desire more'n anythin' t' see ye grow large wi' m' child,"  he says in wonder, lifting the quilt so he can press a line of kisses down Sophie's belly and into her curls, which makes her giggle.  "Eh, ye little sprog,"  he whispers against her.  "Are ye likin' it in there?  I do:  so warm an' wet an' smooth…"  
  
Sophie slips her hand into his hair, pushing lightly, urging him to plant his kisses lower down.  "And I love having you in there."  
  
"Wicked girl!"  
  
"You delicious man."  
  
Barbossa's not one of those men who thinks that a pregnancy spells the end of his being able to approach his lover;  quite the contrary, he's intrigued by the idea that the baby might be able to feel him knocking at the door of Sophie's womb as it slumbers, and thus know of the presence of its father.  Still, he'll be a trifle more gentle and far more generous with the kisses all over her body he knows she loves (though truth be told, he needs not one bit of excuse to apply them).  
  
As he parts her curling dark hair and soft lips with his fingers and begins sliding his tongue against the pink treasure revealed, Barbossa thinks of something he greatly desires for which he wants to be home when the baby arrives.  _T' see th' rich milk drip from yer breast, Dove, an' taste it;  for you t' give me suck once th' babe's been fed… 'twould be such a sweet thing as only lovers as we are could e'er do._  
  
He's a bit embarrassed to have such a thought, but not enough to stop thinking it, and it's one that accompanies him for the next few months to keep him warm throughout the battles and storms while he's at sea.  His quartermaster, name of Kelliher, is the one man who knows about Sophie, and to whom Barbossa confides his hopes and fears about the upcoming birth one evening as they stand at the rail.  "Seems I be litterin' th' landscape wi' me offspring,"  he laughs, a little uneasily.  "Got me a strappin' great son an' a marriageable daughter, an' now there's a new babe t' come…"  
  
"I've a good wife an' four little uns back in England,"  Kelliher confesses,  "though they'd not be a'tall little anymore.  I don't know as I'll e'er see 'em again, but still… even th' thought of 'em makes me proud."  
  
"Boys?  Girls?"  
  
"Two sons, an' two fair little maids."  
  
"Mine're twins,"  says Barbossa.  "M' Sophie must've had th' shock of her life when that happened."  He pauses, then adds,  "Wish I could ha' been there for her.  She were so alone, an' for fourteen years she raised 'em up ne'er knowin' if I were alive or dead or if I even remembered her."  
  
In that moment, the two men put their violent lives of piracy behind and stand there simply as fathers sharing a wish for their children to grow up healthy, happy, and strong;  men aching with loneliness for the women they love, whose memories they keep tucked warm and safe in their hearts.  
  
Kelliher's pleased to hear about the baby on the way.  "Think it'll look like you or like her?"  
  
That makes Barbossa laugh.  "If it be anythin' like Cass or Matt, 'twill have reddish hair an' eyes dark blue as th' night sky, but for fuck's sake, whate'er else it looks like, please don't let it have me great honk of a nose!"  He sighs.  "Sophie may love m' looks, but parts of 'em won't set well on a babe, an' that be th' truth."  
  
"Ahh, don't fret yerself;  I'm sure it'll be handsome as can be.  Mine were, though ye can't hardly say I'm any great shakes t' look at."  
  
There's a silence, then,  "Kell?"  
  
"Mm?"  
  
"If th' worst should happen t' me, would ye look after Sophie an' our brood in m' stead?  They'll not starve nor go without — I've made sure of that — but I don't want 'em alone, wi' no protection or anyone t' look out an' care for 'em."  
  
"Nothin'll happen…"  
  
" _Please_ , Kell.  Or shall I have t' make it an order?"  
  
Kelliher chuckles, for he knows that Barbossa's only trying to say how much it would mean to him;  that he would never order something as important as this.  "I'd be honored, Hector.  Your family's safe with me."

 

  
  
  
-oOo-  TBC  -oOo-


	6. Family Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sophie has her baby, but unlike the first time, a frantic Barbossa is now on hand to worry and wonder why it's taking so long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sophie has the habit of calling Barbossa by his first and middle names — "Hector Peran!" — when she's irritated; something that many a modern child will recognize their parents doing when they're in trouble.
> 
> "Sallet": the term during that era for a salad, which could contain a wide variety of fresh and pickled vegetables, including leafy greens. Sophie often has trouble getting her lodgers to eat it, as they are more used to meats, breads, and sweets, but Barbossa — in addition to being addicted to fruit — has a healthy appreciation for the refreshing taste and texture of salads, as well as the sweetness and juiciness of tomatoes.

 

 

 

-oOo-  
  
  


 

 

 

"Oh, fuckin' hell!!"  Barbossa blurts out.  The last time he saw Sophie, she was five months gone with her belly softly curving, just enough that it was plain his baby lay within;  now, four months later, it's enormous and round, clearly a fleshly nursery to a child who will be born any minute.  "You got more twins in there?"  
  
Sophie laughs out loud at the profanity, for it's so like him to express his surprise that way.  "I've no idea,"  she answers drily.  "I'd ask you to put your arms around me, but I don't know how close you can get."  
  
Barbossa goes in from the side so he can give and get a kiss, then moves behind her, pressing close, his hands cradling her swollen breasts.  "Ye don't know how I've missed ye,"  he whispers, sliding one hand down, catching his breath when he feels the baby kick him, hard.  "'Tis a boy, for sure,"  he tells her.  "I'd not think a girl would fight like that."  
  
"She might.  Will you be disappointed if I give you another daughter?"  
  
"What?  'Course not!  What makes ye think I'd not want t' be th' father of pretty girls?"  Barbossa's hands are at Sophie's waist and hips and thighs as he feels her all over, taking in her shape and how it's changed.  "Ohhh, ye're so round an' soft!  Come now, an' sit down;  ye must be knackered carryin' such a weight inside an' afore ye all th' time."  
  
"It's not the weight,"  Sophie mutters.  "It's having to piss ten times a day, with Cassie or Cora to keep me steady so I don't fall over!"  
  
Barbossa snickers, though he secretly feels rather badly at the thought of a wobbling, embarrassed Sophie unable to balance over a chamber pot without the help of either daughter or maid.  "Be that so?"  
  
"Aye, that's so.  _You_ try carrying a baby inside you all day and see what it gets you."  
  
"No thanks, darlin'.  I think I'll stick t' providin' seed for th' field, not havin' t' carry th' growin' crop 'round wi' me!"  
  
"Uh-huh,"  says Sophie, elbowing him in the stomach.  "I thought you'd say that.  Just like a man."  
  
"Now, now, don't be that way;  not when I've run all th' way home jus' t' see ye."  Barbossa helps Sophie turn around in his arms until she finds a semi-comfortable, if still awkward, position in which to lean against him.  "Oh there now, Dove, there there…"  
  
When Cassandra appears, she flings her arms around his neck and gives him a smacking kiss on his hairy cheek before passing on some unsettling news.  "Bloody tavernkeeper's son is pestering me,"  she grouses.  "He keeps saying something about marrying him, but I wouldn't have him if he were the last man on this island or any other."  
  
A wave of fatherly protectiveness settles over Barbossa.  "That so?"  he says with a frown.  "Mayhap I should be havin' a word with him.  Though what were ye doin' down by th' tavern anyway, Missy?!"  
  
"It's my fault,"  Sophie interrupts.  "I had to fetch the ale and wine, but I couldn't manage the barrow by myself."  
  
"So where was Matt?  He shoulda gone, not her."  
  
"Your son's grown and working, Hector;  he's been out helping Blue John Hackett pull up his nets since dawn this morning, so unless you think he can do that and walk on water with a loaded barrow at the same time, that's his excuse."  Sophie squints at Barbossa.  "And anyway, you were never worried when I was younger than her and fetching back the drink all by myself…"  
  
"Wanna bet?"  Barbossa still remembers how he berated Old Nan for sending 14-year-old Sophie to the tavern.  "Weren't safe for a good girl then an' it bain't safe now…"  
  
"Will you two shut up?"  Cassie butts in.  "Good Lord."  
  
Sophie looks at Hector.  Hector looks at Sophie.  They both stare at the daughter who is so much like them.  Then they burst out laughing.  
  
The inn, Sophie explains, is running at reduced capacity owing to the late stage of her pregnancy.  "Three lodgers at most, and two if I can,"  she says.  "I just can't move fast enough to take care of more, and you know Cora:  she's not been the best help."  
  
"It should be none a'tall,"  Barbossa replies, kissing her temple as he makes a mental note to give the maid-of-all-work a good scolding for being lazy.  "I'm not likin' how tired ye look.  Ye should be restin' in bed 'mongst soft pillows with a tankard of cool lemon water on th' table aside ye, not slavin' o'er a fiery hearth."  
  
"What do you think I did when I was carrying Mattie and Cassie?"  Sophie snaps.  "This place doesn't run itself, Hector Peran, and I'm the innkeeper!"  
  
Instead of continuing the argument, Barbossa chalks this combativeness up to her feeling achey and not entirely well.  "All right, all right:  three lodgers, no more,"  he says.  "But while ye're cookin',"  he adds,  "I want ye t' sit down in th' kitchen much as ye can an' there'll be no arguin' that point."  
  
"Hector…!"  Then Sophie presses both hands over her face before she gives him a smile and sighs.  "I'm sorry, my love, I'm not meaning to be a shrew;  I just feel…"  Her smile fades and she starts to cry.  "I missed you so much!"  
  
These displays of wildly swinging, feverish emotion don't seem quite like her, but in his distant memory, Barbossa recalls his mother going on laughing and crying jags when she herself was with child.  "Hisht, sweet,"  he whispers.  "I be standin' here afore ye all of a piece an' glad t' be home, so no need t' upset yerself.  Shhh…"  
  
Presently, Sophie calms down and wipes a wet cloth over her face and neck, then goes into the kitchen.  "A roast mutton joint tonight,"  she answers when Barbossa asks what's for supper,  "onions stewed with thyme and raisins — I bought two big barrels of raisins from the last supply ship and I've been putting them in everything — the last of my tomatoes, a grand sallet, and both bacon and custard tarts.  The tree is a bit bare of oranges, but I've enough to make you a nice sangaree with Madeira, if you like."  
  
"I would.  I'll take it in here so's th' lodgers don't fuss that I get somethin' they don't."  Not that he really cares, but he'd rather Sophie not have to put up with anyone's fussing, or the bother of explanations.  
  
She likes it when Barbossa joins her in the kitchen;  it feels homely to have him there, and occasionally she can prevail upon him to do things like slice bread or cut up fruit.  But tonight, she just wants him there where she can see him.  "Here you go,"  she says, setting the tankard down on the table after preparing his drink.  
  
He catches her by the arm.  "Sit on m' knee for a moment, will ye?"  he asks.  
  
She laughs.  "I'm big as a cow;  I'll break your leg off if I do."  
  
"Ye bain't that heavy, girl.  Come here."  Sophie carefully sits down, her arms around his shoulders and her cheek pressed to his.  "Or maybe y'are, but I don't care."  
  
Sophie's not the only one going on emotional jags as Barbossa holds her close, losing himself in her warmth.  "Ye feel so good,"  he murmurs, and there's a tremor in his voice.  "I've missed ye somethin' awful."  
  
Cassie comes in to find them in the midst of a passionate kiss, Barbossa caressing Sophie's round midsection in the most intimate gesture she can imagine.  "Ahem!!"  
  
All she gets for that is her father's hand waving her away.  
  
"They're at it again,"  she giggles at Mattie when she goes back into the parlor, and,  "Lord, I do hope one day I find someone to love that much."  
  
  
  
  
-oOo-  
-oOo-  
  
  
  
  
Tired and aching and scarcely able to move, Sophie relents and puts the 'Closed' sign on the door;  none too soon, as she wakes one early morning with a cry of pain.  "Send Cassie for the midwife!"  she tells Barbossa through gritted teeth.  "Tell Mattie to go to Blue John's house until it's over, and you… go anywhere you like as long as you don't stay here!"  
  
"Dove… Dove, can I not do anythin'…?"  asks Barbossa in a panic, remembering the arrival of his two youngest sisters and how frightened he was.  "Must I leave ye alone?"  
  
"Just go!"  Sophie cries.  "This is no place for a man!"  
  
He accompanies Cassie to the midwife's house to make certain the woman's on her way to the inn, then goes to the only place a man in such a situation ever does:  the tavern.  "Rum, an' leave th' bottle!"  he snaps, settling into a chair at a dark corner table.  "Don't wanna be bothered, so keep th' girls away!"  
  
Barbossa sits in the shadows throughout the morning, afternoon, and evening, and late into the night, barely able to touch his glass, although just to please the tavern owner for taking up the space, he buys a second bottle of rum that his upset stomach tells him he cannot drink.  _Did she take this long wi' th' twins?_   he wonders frantically on one occasion when he briefly goes outside to relieve himself;  then, the fright overtaking him, he doubles over and heaves.  _I know 'tis a woman's lot t' bear her babes in sorrow an' pain, but how much can Sophia stand afore she can take no more an' it kills her?  Why can I do nothin' for her?_  
  
Men know as well as anyone how often women die in childbed or its attendant fever, and Barbossa's fear of losing Sophie that way is worse than any he's ever had of wounds, death, or damnation.  
  
More than anything in the world, he hates feeling so helpless.  
  
A spat-out swig of liquor takes care of the muzziness in his mouth, then Barbossa motions the tavern owner's wife over and orders a tankard of weak ale to quench his thirst.  "Ye're lookin' pale, dearie,"  she says to him as she sets it on the table.  "What's frettin' ye?"  
  
"Nothin'."  
  
She knows better than that.  "You don't fool me a bit, Cap'n.  Ye been sittin' here a donkey's age, I know who yer woman is, an' I been watchin' her belly grow an' grow for months.  It's comin' now, ain't it?"  
  
Though he'd be ordinarily inclined to snap and snarl at anyone who dared insinuate herself into his business, Barbossa's too anxious to act in an 'ordinary' way.  "Aye,"  he says.  "I been banished from th' house…"  
  
"An' rightly, too,"  the woman tells him.  "She'll send for ye when it's over, never fear."  
  
Just before dawn, Cassie and Mattie — whom she's fetched from his employer's house so her father won't scold her about being in the tavern alone — come to deliver good news and escort Barbossa home.  "It's a boy, Papa,"  Cassie tells him.  "He's beautiful:  healthy and crying, with all of his parts."  
  
"An' yer mother?"  
  
"Sleeping, or close to it.  She's worn out, but the midwife says she's not fevered;  she just needs to rest."  
  
Sophie's pale and her eyes flutter open when Barbossa's ushered into a bedroom that smells strongly of blood.  "Are ye cold, Dove?"  he asks, afraid that her pallor might mean she's lost more than her body can stand.  
  
But,  "No,"  she whispers.  "I'm just… I'm so tired, Hector… tired and sore…"  
  
"We've another son, darlin';  did ye know?"  
  
"Mm… hm…"  
  
Before he takes the baby from the midwife, Barbossa sits down on the edge of the bed, leans down, and kisses Sophie's forehead.  "Oh, m' brave Sophia,"  he sighs.  "Ye must take yer rest now, an' don't think of nothin' 'cept gettin' t' know our nursling."  
  
The infant the midwife lays in his arms is a red-faced little creature, bawling in indignation at having been dislodged from the comfort of the warm home inside his mother, and Barbossa grins at the blue eyes that look up at him and the fringe of reddish-brown hair.  "Another Jorey, for certain."  The baby burps.  "An' yer Da's bad manners,"  he laughs.  
  
"His mum needs to feed him now,"  the midwife says.  "Just a little;  then she can sleep."  
  
To her surprise, Barbossa doesn't leave the room to give Sophie modest space, but hoists himself onto the bed behind her.  "Rest yerself,"  he murmurs,  "an' I'll be yer cushion."  He sits quietly, letting Sophie lean back against him while she nurses the infant, smiling down at the sight of the tiny hands grasping at her breast.  "Greedy, greedy, ye little bugger.  Not so fast, now, or ye'll get a bellyache."  
  
Sophie's too tired and weak to burp the baby once he's done, so the midwife takes him.  "So, what will you call him?"  she asks as she's patting his back.  
  
"We were thinkin' Alexander,"  Barbossa answers, taking Sophie's hand in his own and kissing it, fingers and palm.  "'Tis a fine, brave name for a boy, d' ye not think?"  The infant chooses that moment to let fly with a long, noisy belch that surprises the midwife and makes Barbossa grin.  "I can tell he'd be right at home on m' ship,"  he snickers.  "Me crew bain't th' most mannerly lot, an' they often amuse themselves wi' contestin' t' see who can make th' rudest noises fore an' aft."  
  
Exhausted though she is, even Sophie manages to laugh at that.  
  
"Let's put this little boy down t' sleep, then,"  the midwife tells him, laying the baby carefully in the cradle.  "His mother should wake to feed him;  other'n that, your daughter can see to what he needs."  
  
Cassie's thrilled to have a new little brother, and is happy to take over his care while her mother recovers.  "He looks like you, Papa,"  she says.  "He has your hair and eyes."  
  
Easing himself out from behind Sophie, who has fallen asleep, and tucking the quilt around her, Barbossa gets up and kisses the top of his daughter's head.  "But he has yer mother's sweet little nose, thank Christ!"  Then he goes downstairs and out into the back garden, where he climbs into the hammock and promptly falls asleep, a contented smile on his face.

 

  
  
  
-oOo-  TBC  -oOo-


	7. Home Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantham House receives a special visitor: Barbossa's close friend and quartermaster Michael Kelliher, who meets the family he's sworn to protect and gets his first taste of Sophie's cooking and hospitality.
> 
> Also, Barbossa and Sophie have a little fun in their parlor once everyone else has retired for the night… or so they think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Bammy" is a fried cassava and flour flatbread often served for breakfast. Barbossa is fond of it, and frequently takes a piece or two, spread with honey, folded, and wrapped in a pocket handkerchief, to munch on during the day. 
> 
> "Sotto voce": to speak in low, confidential tones, or under one's breath.
> 
> You'll recognize what Barbossa said to Jack the Monkey in AWE at the very end of the film. It was charming and sweet, and laid bare the captain's heart as a loving one, much as he might want to deny it… and I can hear him saying exactly the same thing to his baby son.
> 
> There's a postscript examining how Barbossa approaches his role as a father, and a couple of other things.

 

 

-oOo-

 

 

 

 

"Oooh, ye're a good boy, ye're Daddy's boy, oh yes, you are,"  Barbossa croons softly to the baby in his arms as the little one chews on a hank of his father's hair.  "Oh yes, you are."  
  
Sophie giggles at him, then moves closer to put her hand on his waist, little Alexander held between them.  "I want a portrait painted of you just like that,"  she says.  "We'll call it _A Proud Father_ and hang it in the parlor."  
  
Barbossa rubs his big nose against the baby's small, snub one, only to get batted in the face with a tiny hand and the little fingers stuck in his beard.  "Aye, m' sweet,"  he tells her, laughing as he disentangles himself.  "'Tis easy t' be one when ye bear me such fine sons."  
  
Sophie's noticed something and begins to squint.  "Well, you'd better give him back to me unless you want him…"  
  
Too late, and Alexander's linen shirt gets quickly soaked, dripping down Barbossa's waistcoat and breeches and onto his boots.  
  
"… to wet himself all over you,"  Sophie finishes, cringing as she takes the baby from him, wrapping him in her quickly-doffed apron.  "I'm sorry;  I should have caught it sooner."  
  
But Barbossa only laughs again.  It's no more than a minor annoyance, and,  _If ye only knew, darlin',_ he thinks, _how many times I been too drunk t' realize I were standin' upwind when I pulled it out and got sprayed by me own piss, or got watered down by some man jack three sheets t' th' wind as aimed his langer at me 'stead of overboard or in a corner.  Th' babe has far more excuse:  he's but a little un, an' that's what they do_.  "Ne'er mind, sweet;  some water an' a cloth'll put things right."  
  
Father and son cleaned up and dried off, and with Alexander dressed in a fresh shirt, the baby is reinstalled in his cradle, now placed in the parlor where Sophie and Cassie can keep an eye on it during the day.  "I'll rock it for awhile,"  Barbossa tells them, putting a toe against the edge of the wood and pushing lightly as he relaxes on the settee with his pipe.  
  
Sophie and Cassie watch him for a few moments, then grin at each other.  "Big tough man,"  Cassie whispers, trying not to laugh too loudly.  
  
Her mother nudges her with her shoulder.  "You should hear the way he coos at Lex;  I've never heard the like."  
  
"Like I said:  what a big tough man."  
  
It's something Cassie adores about her father:  that he _is_ a tough man outside the family — she's under no illusions about what he is, and knows perfectly well there's a large price on his head for piracy, theft, and murder — but within it… he's different:  kind and gentle, and the biggest pushover ever, and any toughness exhibited goes toward protecting his nearest and dearest.  She loves to sit at Barbossa's feet in rapt attention as he tells endless stories (some not entirely suited to a teenage girl's ears), watching her mother rest her head on his knee and hold fast to one hand while he slides her cap off with the other and gently strokes her hair.  More than once, Cassie's crept through the halls at night to put her ear to their door, listening as they make love to each other, breathlessly whispering and laughing and crying.  She's not quite sure what they're doing, but whatever it is, they obviously love it… and one another.  
  
It doesn't embarrass her.  Instead, it makes her hope that, one day, she'll be blessed with what her mother has.  
  
Mattie has great pride in Barbossa, too — for his fearlessness, for his knowledge of the world and all things nautical, for his fighting spirit, for the fine way he speaks, for his evident, if unspoken, love for Sophie — but it's more than that;  like Cassie, he loves him because he's turned out to be the father he's always wanted.  It's a rare occasion that Barbossa doesn't have time for his son when the latter wants to talk;  he's free with both laughter and advice when needed, and he doesn't treat him like a child.  
  
"Me own Da were much out t' sea,"  Barbossa tells him one afternoon when the _Pearl_ comes into port two months later to unload a large cargo of spices, household goods, and indigo,  "so what I knew were life wi' many women.  Always said I'd not leave any son of mine alone that much, were I so lucky as t' have one, an' I've tried, m' boy.  I've tried."  
  
It's a confession Barbossa's never made before:  that he was lonely for his father and his masculine presence, and felt perhaps just a bit abandoned in favor of the sea.  He dearly loved his mother and sisters, but he needed his father… and every time there's a storm, he privately curses it, just a little, for being kin to the one that snatched his daddy away.  
  
Mattie knows the unspoken guilt his father feels for being so late to learn about his twin children, and just once, he asks him why he didn't come home.  "Weren't 'cause I didn't want to,"  Barbossa says with a sigh,  "but more'n that, I can ne'er tell ye.  Just know that were m' circumstances diff'rent, I would have.  I would have."  
  
  
  
  
-oOo-  
-oOo-  
  
  
  
  
"Though yer first thought might be t' hit th' taverns, ye must come up th' hill wi' me,"  Barbossa says to Kelliher.  "Ye made me a promise, true, and I'd hold ye to it, but I be thinkin' now I'd not want Sophie t' meet ye first when ye present yerself t' tell her I'm dead."  
  
Kelliher winces.  "Be fuckin' awful, that."  
  
"Aye, it would.  So, ye'll come?"  
  
"Gladly."  
  
With Barbossa's permission, Kelliher rummages about their swag for better clothes that fit and are clean, washes his face and hands, and combs out his hair, for he would not present himself to his captain's family at less than his best.  "M'lady,"  he says, bowing and gallantly kissing Sophie's hand once he has entered the house on Barbossa's heels.  "I be Michael Kelliher, quartermaster of the _Black Pearl_ , an' ye must be th' cap'n's treasured Sophie.  I've th' honor t' call yer man friend, so that makes his fam'ly friends also."  
  
Sophie hasn't met any other members of the crew, so this is quite a surprise.  "Mister… Kelliher, is it?"  she says.  "I wish Hector had told me;  I'd have prepared something special for dinner."  
  
Barbossa laughs and lets the informal 'Hector' pass.  "Bain't a thing she cooks that ain't special,"  he tells Kelliher, surreptitiously patting Sophie on the backside.  "Ye'll have a meal such as ye ne'er ate in all th' world b'fore."  
  
"Will you stay the night?"  Sophie inquires.  "Lodgers have been scarce the past week or so — I've none at all at the moment — so you can have your pick of rooms, no charge…"  Fearing she might have spoken too soon and against Barbossa's wishes, she looks at him, but he only nods.  
  
Kelliher has spotted the cradle in the parlor;  a larger one than the first, and built by Mattie to give Alexander room to grow.  "Is this yer littlest?"  he asks.  "A fine wee manny, he is."  
  
"Aye, he is, that,"  replies Barbossa, doing something that Kelliher has never dreamed to see:  he lifts Alexander out of his cot and cradles him in his arms, rocking him gently and patting his back.  
  
Sophie smiles, whispering as she often does,  "Proud father."  
  
The sight brings back memories of his own children to Kelliher, and he brushes away a tear.  "Ye've twins near grown, I hear?"  he says.  
  
"Mm-hm.  Mattie's hauling fish with Blue John today — he'll be home shortly after sundown — and Cassie's out back tending the herbs.  I'll go get her."  
  
Once she's gone, Kelliher holds his arms out for Alexander.  "Please, Hector,"  he says quietly.  "Just for a moment.  'Tis been a lifetime since I held me own, an' I know not if I shall e'er hold any of 'em again."  
  
Sophie and Cassie come in to find Kelliher bouncing Alexander lightly, and the baby crowing in delight.  "You've children of your own;  I can tell,"  says Sophie, putting her hand on Cassie's arm to stop her running forward in alarm.  
  
"Aye:  four, an' I've not seen 'em, nor me wife, in th' longest time."  One more gentle bounce;  then he hands Alexander back to Barbossa, who lays him down in his cot and tucks him in.  "So… ye're th' cap'n's daughter,"  he says to Cassie, who can no more keep her cap on her head than her mother ever could.  "I'd recognize that russet hair an' blue eyes anywhere."  
  
Barbossa eyes Sophie, recalling a delicious moment from years before when she was a young maiden picking fruit in the garden and her cap came off.  _Aye, I remember:  I were standin' in th' window watchin' ye an' givin' meself one hell of a wank when yer hair tumbled down.  Good girl, ye were, but ye made me feel ev'ry sort of wicked an' desirous thing.  Still do, an' always will._   "Aye, she got that from me.  Th' rest of it, well… all th' beauty… she's th' very spit of her mother."  
  
Cassie blushes at the compliment.  "Papa!"  
  
"Cass, this be m' quartermaster, Michael Kelliher,"  Barbossa chuckles.  "Th' larger part of me crew, I'd not have halfway up the hill nor anywhere near ye, but as pirates go, he's more a gentleman than most.  Kell, m' daughter, an' Sophia's:  Cassandra."  
  
"Miss Cassandra,"  Kelliher says, bowing again.  "I'm most pleased t' meet ye."  
  
Anyone who's a friend to her father is a friend of Cassie's, and she grins.  "Well, what are we standing around for?  Come sit down, Mister Kelliher;  we'll bring you a drink…"  
  
  
  
  
-oOo-  
-oOo-  
  
  
  
  
Kelliher's eyes widen as Sophie ushers him into the chamber he will occupy.  "Good Lord, but I must be dreamin',"  he says.  "I ain't had a room this big an' clean since I left home, an' that's been years."  He touches the soft quilt;  examines the basin and jug on the washstand.  "'Tis a beautiful house ye keep here, Missus, an' I see why th' cap'n be so loath t' leave it an' quick t' return."  
  
Sophie gives her usual explanation of everything he may find for his use in the room, then adds,  "And please… if there's anything more you'd like, don't hesitate to ask.  The water in the jug is cold;  if you'd like warm, it's no trouble to put the kettle on."  
  
"Don't go spoilin' him now,"  Barbossa cuts in.  
  
Sophie pokes him in the stomach.  "Listen, you:  this is my inn, and I'm the innkeeper.  You don't like the way I run it, you know where the door is."  Then she laughs, which starts Barbossa to laughing, too, and his soft "Give us a kiss" has her acquiescing immediately.  
  
Kelliher can't help but smile at the couple.  "Shall I be leavin', or d' ye have a room of yer own?"  he inquires.  
  
For that, all that happens is that Barbossa kisses Sophie harder.  
  
"All right, all right, I can take a hint.  Just don't be mussin' me bed up too much, hear?"  
  
Barbossa comes up for air, although he doesn't let Sophie go.  "I'll have ye know,"  he says,  "that this be th' very chamber I used to stay in when I first came here.  Lovely view, 'specially when there be an innkeeper out in th' back pickin' fruit off th' trees."  He squeezes Sophie and kisses her temple.  "Come on, Dove, let's let Kell look around an' see what's what in here."  
  
Kelliher chuckles in fond amusement as they leave the room, and for the longest time, he can't stop.    
  
  
  
  
-oOo-  
-oOo-  
  
  
  
  
Tonight's a special occasion:  with no lodgers save Kelliher — and he doesn't really count as one — Grantham House will be the site of a merry family dinner.  "Ye'll serve, wi' no complaints,"  Barbossa warns Cora.  "Yer mistress be slavin' o'er cookin' th' meal, an' that's enough."  
  
The pantry has been restocked in the last few days and the garden harvested, with fattened poultry pecking around the back garden, so at his request, Sophie will make her famous citrus peppered chicken, along with dishes of vegetables spiced and honeyed, fresh bread with butter made just that morning, a crisp herbed salad, and puddings both savory and sweet;  things a sailor might not have the opportunity to taste for months or years.  
  
Barbossa and Kelliher go down to the tavern, ignoring the rest of the crew that wonders where they've been, and procure fresh ale and bottles of the best wine they can get, including two of the Madeira the tavernkeeper hides in the back for those who can afford it.  "Sophia has an orange tree, an' other fruit, an' she makes th' finest sangaree ye e'er put down yer gullet,"  he explains.  "No point makin' merry on rotgut when ye can have drink fit for a king…"  
  
"Or a cap'n,"  Kelliher says with a grin.  
  
On the way back up the hill, they meet up with Mattie, returning from his day's work.  "This be me elder boy,"  Barbossa says proudly.  "Or mayhap 'boy' bain't th' right word for 'im;  not when ye need only one look t' see he's grown int' a man.  Matt, this be Kell, m' quartermaster."  
  
"Michael Kelliher, young master, an' I'm pleased t' finally meet ye.  Yer father brags about ye ten t' th' dozen if'n he says one word… an' he's been sayin' a lot of 'em lately."  
  
Mattie laughs — a full-throated, slightly rough sound quite reminiscent of his father's now that his voice has dropped into completely adult ranges — and sticks out his hand.  "Has he, now?  Well, I'm just as pleased to meet you."  
  
"Yer good mother be makin' supper an' sent us for th' wine,"  Barbossa puts in.  "Come along, now;  she's been waitin' for ye."  
  
They arrive back at the inn to find Sophie hard at work basting chickens as she turns them on their spits;  she stirs a pot of her sweet plantain and carrot porridge — the one she usually serves for breakfast, but which also makes a fine dish to complete a meal — looks in at the large fish that Mattie brought her, poaching in a liquor of light wine and herbs, and tests a pair of tarts to see if they're done, while behind her at the table, Cassie slices crusty bread into thick chunks and cheese into wedges, cuts up vegetables, and tosses them into a bowl with sharp herbs, salt, pepper, and a dribble of the Spanish oil so prized in Sophie's kitchen.  "Ye look like ye could use a drink,"  Barbossa tells her.  
  
"Maybe some ale and a piece of bread,"  she replies.  "I'm feeling a bit faint…"  
  
Barbossa's arms are around her in an instant, pulling her back from the hearth.  "Then ye'll not be goin' anywhere near fire!"  he says.  "Ye think I'd want t' lose ye in such a way?"  
  
"Don't fuss, Hector;  I've cooked when feeling far worse."  But Sophie's caressing his arm as he holds her, and she loves him for his concern.  "Look, if you want to bring me a chair, then fine;  I'll sit down."  
  
Her faintness suggests something to Barbossa, and he looks into Sophie's eyes as though he'll find the answer to a question there.  "Ye're not wi' child again, are ye?"  
  
The question catches Sophie by surprise.  "Not that I know of… but then, it's not like we've not been…"  She giggles and presses her face against Barbossa's chest to hide her blushes.  "I don't think so, Hector, but I can't say for sure.  If I am… _when_ I am… you'll be the first to know."  
  
  
  
-oOo-  
-oOo-    
  
  
  
Unlike many heads of other families, Barbossa doesn't believe in silence at the dinner table, nor that his children shouldn't partake of the conversation, especially now that they're grown.  "Matt here's Blue John Hackett's right-hand man,"  he tells Kelliher.  "Those nets would ne'er come up without him."  
  
"Like I told ye, young master:  he brags on ye left an right,"  Kelliher snickers at Mattie.  "So, are ye likin' th' trade of fisherman?"  
  
"Well, I like what I get paid,"  Mattie admits,  "and I like being on the water.  I also like getting good fish for cheap!"  The table erupts in laughter.  "But given my druthers, I'd like to try spending my days as a carpenter.  I put together Alex's cot, you know."  
  
"Did ye, now?  A fine piece of work it is, too, and I'm likin' th' carving ye did on th' sides.  You ever consider makin' ship's figureheads?"  
  
The look on Barbossa's face says he thinks that's a dandy idea.  "Say I give ye leave t' design whate'er ye want,"  he tells Mattie.  "Think ye know what ye'd make?"  
  
Mattie mulls over the question for a minute.  Then,  "You want her to be fearsome?  Or a beauty more like the lady of the _Pearl?"_  
  
"Aye:  fearsome.  Tell me yer idea;  then I'll tell ye what were on th' first ship I captained."  
  
"Hmmm… all right.  I'd give her hair like a squid, with suckers and points, one fist raised and a trident spiking a heart in her other hand, but instead of a fish tail, I'd give her a fine pair of legs and a torn gown."  
  
There's more laughter, but in spite of that, both Barbossa and Kelliher are nodding in approval.  "I'd damn well be scared of a squid-locked Medusa,"  Barbossa tells him, adding silently,  _Reminds me a bit too much of Davy-Bloody-Jones!_   "Good touch wi' th' legs;  she be more fearful that way, t' my mind."  
  
"And _your_ first figurehead?"  Mattie asks.  
  
"Ah:  that would be on the _Cerberus_.  Three hounds' heads with bloody great teeth an' a coiled serpent's tail.  Ye'd best b'lieve ev'ryone knew when we were on th' attack…"  
  
"Gentlemen, would you mind saving the blood and guts stories until after dinner?"  Sophie puts in.  
  
Barbossa gazes fondly at her over the table while Mattie and Kelliher laugh.  "Seein' as how ye've such soft an' feminine sensibilities, Dove, I do 'pologize.  Cora!"  
  
The maid appears.  
  
"'Nother round of that fair fish for th' table, if ye don't mind."  
  
  
  
  
-oOo-  
-oOo-

  
  
  
Barbossa has never stood on ceremony or the kind of manners that get in the way of what he wants, and Kelliher's presence doesn't stop him from catching Sophie's hand once she's stopped bustling about, and pulling her down to sit on his lap.  "Ah, ye're such a fine, warm weight on a man's knee,"  he sighs, before adding _sotto voce_ ,  "An' I can feel th' heat of yer cunny through yer skirts."  
  
Sophie's long since learned not to be embarrassed by even the most frank of talk when in private, but Barbossa catches her by surprise with that.  "Hector…!"  she says, blushing hotly.  
  
"Well?"  he says, his voice still low and intimate, for her alone.  "Can ye not feel th' answering heat from me?"  
  
Kelliher knows that look on his captain's face and grins behind his hand;  presently, he gets up and stretches.  "Been a grand, restful day,"  he announces, a little louder than strictly necessary,  "an' now I think a good night's sleep t' cap it off'll be just th' thing.  Missus, I do thank ye for th' finest meal I've eaten in years, yer good comp'ny, an' I'll be retirin' now."  
  
Sophie is about to ask if he'd like to be accompanied up to his room, but Barbossa holds her where she is.  "Ye'll break yer fast with a meal just as fine,"  he says.  "Sun-up, or a little later."  
  
"Aye."  And with that, Kelliher goes upstairs.  
  
Alexander is asleep in his cradle, and the twins have already retired to their rooms, so except for the oblivious baby, Barbossa and Sophie are left alone in the parlor.  "What do you want?"  she asks.  
  
Barbossa's already slipping his hands under her gown and chemise, brushing them out of the way.  "What d' ye think?"  
  
Sophie doesn't answer, only turns to face him and, under cover of her voluminous skirts, unbuttons his breeches and peers under the hem of his shirt, finding him grown massively hard.  "I remember our first time,"  she suddenly says, and there are tears in her eyes.  "How much I wanted you;  how good you felt…"  
  
She's on him with a soft moan before he can answer, her arms around his neck.  
  
The long-ago memory of his night with the virgin Sophie is a beautiful one for Barbossa that he often relives, but this older Sophie, who knows what she's doing thanks to him and is no longer nervous or afraid or naive, is even better.  "Oh aye, I remember it, too,"  he whispers, clutching at her hips and urging her into a slow, deep rhythm.  "But 'twere only th' first night out of a whole lifetime I hope t' have…"  
  
Neither hears the almost inaudible pad of bare feet:  Cassie, come down for a cup of lemon water, but now crouching silently on the landing, peeking around the bannister as her parents make love on the settee, Sophie perched on Barbossa's lap and bearing down on him.  The oil in the lamp is burning down and the light is flickering, but it's still enough that she can see the stain of red on her mother's cheeks and the way her father's hands are shaking as he holds her;  can hear them both panting and the sounds they make when they kiss, and presently, she sees him pull out the straight pins that hold Sophie's bodice together.  "Oh now, there's a bosom as can scarce be rivaled in all th' world for bein' soft t' touch an' sweet t' taste,"  he murmurs as he unties the neck of her chemise and nuzzles her breasts.  
  
Cassie crams both hands against her mouth lest she make a sound and give away her presence, but although she knows this is an exceedingly private moment that she should not be witnessing, still, she cannot move.  
  
She watches as her father caresses Sophie, kisses her mouth, her neck, her shoulders, wrests her down on her back and digs deep;  hears their shaky laughter when they fall off onto the floor.  It's not that she sees so much, but there's just enough:  her mother's skirts sliding back to reveal one stockinged leg, the smooth flex of Barbossa's back and hips, still covered by his shirt — Cassie inhales sharply as she suddenly realizes exactly what they're doing — and Sophie's hands as she grips his back and twists them into his hair.  And they're no chaste kisses they exchange, for how could they be, with such an intimate joining and intertwining of bodies as this?  
  
She doesn't know how it all will end, but learns soon enough when Sophie begins to shudder and gasp for breath, with Barbossa following her seconds later with a series of long, deep groans that he can't hold back, the two of them finally slumping weakly on the floor.  "I ever tell ye how hot y'are within?"  he asks.  
  
Sophie sighs and pats his cheek.  "More than once, my love, and I'm glad you like it."  
  
Cassie figures it's now time to make her retreat, and that she manages it without being found out is only because Barbossa chooses that moment to press a deep kiss to Sophie's lips with a long 'Mmmmmm…' that covers the sound of his daughter's footsteps.  
  
Clothes straightened and gaining his feet, Barbossa carefully lifts Alexander's cradle and carries it up the stairs to their room where, very slowly, Sophie undresses him again, watching his cock stand up as her fingers brush against it.  "That's very impressive, Hector,"  she teases.  "But doesn't he ever need to sleep?"  
  
"'Round you, Dove?"  Barbossa answers.  "No more'n yer pink cunny wishes t' rest when I come home.  He'd be bloody daft not t' point at ye ev'ry chance he gets, an' sleep be damned.  Come here, now…!"  
  
  
  
  
-oOo-  
-oOo-  
  
  
  
  
The following morning, Cassie patters down to the kitchen, where she can't help grinning at her mother.  "What?"  Sophie asks.  "You look like a kitten that fell into the milk."  
  
"Oh, nothing, nothing."  The grin gets bigger.  "What's to eat?  Has Papa come down yet?"  
  
"In order:  porridge, bammy, honey, cheese, some sallet and cold chicken from last night, and I think I have a ripe melon in the pantry.  And no, he hasn't.  He's still sound asleep, so I thought I'd let him be a lazybones and take up his breakfast after I've fed you lot and Mister Kelliher."  
  
Cassie bursts out laughing, saying slyly,  "He must really be worn out."  
  
"You're acting very mysterious,"  says Sophie, raising an eyebrow.  "Are you trying to tell me something?"  
  
For a moment before answering, Cassie studies her.  Then,  "You love Papa, don't you."  
  
"More than you know, my girl.  Were you thinking I don't?"  
  
"Of course not.  And… he loves you…?"  
  
At that, Sophie hesitates.  Every action of Barbossa's when he's with her says he does, but it's a deep and hidden grief that he's never told her so.  Still, that's not something to burden her daughter with, so she finally nods with a soft,  "Aye.  Why?"  
  
Cassie can read her better than she thinks;  so, too, does she know her father's heart, whether he speaks the love in it aloud or not.  "No reason."  She looks around the kitchen at all the bustle going on.  "Here, let me help.  I'll slice up the chicken, make the tea, and put out the dishes."  There's a wooden tray on the kitchen table, already draped with a cloth, and set with a large white china plate, a blue teacup and saucer, the engraved pewter tankard the twins pooled their few coins on to give Barbossa last Christmas, cutlery, and what she recognizes as his prized crystal goblet.  There's also a sprig of rosemary along with a rose-red geranium lying atop the linen serviette and she smiles at them.  "Very festive.  What's the occasion?"  
  
"No occasion,"  Sophie replies.  "I just thought… I thought he'd like it."  
  
The wistfulness with which she says this sends Cassie straight into her arms to muffle her in a whirlwind hug.  "He'll love it,"  she whispers.  "He loves _you_ , Mum;  never doubt it."    

 

  
  
-oOo-  TBC  -oOo-  
  
   
  
  
   
  
-oOo-  Author's Notes and Musings  -oOo-

 

 

 

Fathers at this time were not generally involved in the raising of their children;  instead, they were distant authority figures as opposed to the kind of parent a mother would be.  They might see them at suppertime, or for a few minutes each evening, during which time they would question them as to what they had learned that day and perform an "inspection," meting out approval or punishment, but other than that, fathers and children pretty much existed on separate planets.  However, I see Barbossa as somewhat different.  Pride and vanity are such huge parts of his psyche — in himself, and in those things with which he surrounds himself — and what would make him happier than to know that his direct influence means his children will grow up to be adults who reflect well on him?  He's quite proud of being a good teacher, his subject matter being the ways of the world, and with Mattie, that extends to maritime knowledge.  Barbossa has a particularly close bond with Cassie;  not because she's a daddy's girl — the only female he wants to pet and spoil is Sophie, not his daughter — but because she's very much like him:  straightforward, curious, highly intelligent, well-spoken, and she doesn't take nonsense from anyone;  not even him.  As for the baby… to hold his own infant in his arms, knowing it exists because of him, and to feel its dependence upon him and its unconditional love… well, what a thrill that is.  Obviously, he's absent much of the time, but when he's in port, he spends a lot of time with his offspring, giving each the type of attention he or she needs.  
  
Cassie notes that her father's a big softie and a pushover where his family is concerned, and indeed, he is.  Resolute, unyielding, and often cruel aboard his ship, Barbossa is still a man who adores his lover and children, and is easily wheedled, especially when it's accompanied by sweet talk and a few compliments.  His family members are not his crew, and he would not dream to treat them as such.  Whatever they need, he gives without question, whether it be time and attention, material things, or defense from those who are unfriendly and who would harm them.  He is, although he doesn't realize it, exactly like his own father in this way.    
  
Barbossa is in no way a saint;  he does get furiously angry on occasion — generally in response to stupid actions;  sometimes, because he doesn't feel well and _everything_ in the world seems stupid to him — but one thing he does not do:  he never beats his children, nor would he ever hit Sophie.  Harsh words are his weapons of choice, and they're much more effective.  If pushed far enough, he'll snap and then will be given to severe verbal cruelty.  But once the proper contrition has been shown, his anger quickly abates and the whole episode is forgotten.  And when he knows his reaction has been something far exceeding what was merited, he'll make an effort to apologize.  Not to his children, though;  only to Sophie, for he cannot bear to see her in tears.    
  
Diapers/nappies as we know them were not in use at this time, especially in tropical climates.  As Mattie and Cassie were before him, little Alexander was dressed very simply in a long shirt, with Sophie paying close attention to his facial expressions and body language in an attempt to ascertain when she needed to take him outside to "water the plants" or put him on a chamber pot.  Accidents were frequent, but they would occasion no more than a shrug from Barbossa.  He's far too used to living in filthy conditions aboard ship, being around dirty men afflicted by all sorts of unpleasant diseases and conditions — that includes him;  for a typical example, read _Lean on Me_ — as well as being familiar with the realities of what happens to the human body when it dies in battle, to let a wet or messy baby's bottom bother him in the slightest.


	8. It Takes a Daughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassie confronts her father yet again over his reluctance to marry Sophie, but this time, she doesn't back down. Takes place about a month after Kelliher's first meeting the family (he has remained at Grantham House since then).
> 
> An epilogue follows in the next and final chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sophie's Caribbean port town has become Barbossa's primary fencing location, having an excellent market for the sale of plundered trade goods and other valuables, plus a wide variety of the "recreational facilities" ;-) his men most enjoy. He no longer pushes his luck by staying at sea for six or eight months on end if he can help it: two or three profitable actions will see him returning home for at least a couple of weeks, usually more, before he goes out again. In addition to conducting business and spending time with his family, Barbossa also sees to the major maintenance of his ship, and uses the island to periodically careen her (turning the ship on her side on the beach in order to scrape, clean, and repair the hull — you can see this at the beginning of _Dead Man's Chest_ ). He and the crew have been ashore for the past few weeks for exactly that purpose.

 

 

-oOo-  
  
  
  


 

"Come walk with me, Papa,"  says Cassie, slipping her hand through Barbossa's elbow and tugging him up the hill towards the well and its surrounding flat rocks that have come to be used as a place where members of the family go when they want to be alone to think, or to confer with each other over questions of importance.  
  
He goes quietly with her, although he has a sneaking suspicion about what's going to be asked.  
  
And he's right.  "Papa,"  Cassie sighs for the thousandth time,  "oh, Papa, why won't you marry Mum?  If you don't have a wife somewhere else… why?"  
  
Barbossa thinks to give her his usual answer — that what's between himself and Sophie will work itself out in time — but today feels different;  that he can't put her off any longer with some glib excuse.  "Cass,"  he begins.  "Ye're still so young, an' don't know about these things…"  
  
"I'm not that young, and I know what it means when Mum cries over you, wondering why you don't consider her worth marrying but not daring to ask if you will.  The proper town ladies still call her the pirate's whore, you know."  
  
This is something that infuriates Barbossa, but unless he wants to be living on a near-deserted island after he slaughters half the townspeople, he can do little about it except glare and threaten the cruelest of the women.  
  
"When you leave,"  Cassie goes on,  "she doesn't have the comfort of your name;  can't call herself your wife if you live or your widow if you die.  She's truly a Barbossa as much as we are and she's gone through all the pain to prove it;  why will you not vow yourself to her as her husband?"  
  
Barbossa feels like the breath has been punched out of him by the daughter who has his forthright temperament and won't let him get away with quibbling and rubbish.  "Cass… Cass, ye don't understand..."  
  
"You're afraid, aren't you?"  Cassandra has had it with her father's excuses.  "Pirates don't have wives and that's it, isn't it?  They don't love women enough to marry them and that's it, isn't it?  They'd rather dally with whores and that's it, isn't it?"  
  
"Cassandra Barbossa!  You watch yer language!"  
  
"Well, isn't it?"  Cassie loves her mother and will not back down in her effort to get what she wants — not this time — no matter how bluntly she must speak.  "Listen, Papa:  I know, and Mum knows, that you're with painted women when you're not at home and it's something she cries about and tries so hard to ignore, but when you're here… why can't you give her the one thing that would make her happier than anything in the world?  Don't you want to?  Are you that terrified?  I didn't know anything could scare you that much!"  
  
He _is_ scared,  Barbossa finally admits.  He'd rather face any battle no matter how bloody than a parson asking him to repeat marriage vows, because he's never once admitted out loud to his love, and besides… what if he changes his mind the moment it's done?  
  
What if, what if…?  But has he changed his mind in all these years about Sophie?  Has he ever wanted to, whether on good days or bad?  
  
No, not once, not for a single instant, and spoken or not, he loves her more than he ever imagined a man could love a woman.  
  
Barbossa takes his daughter's hand and presses it between both of his own.  "Oh, Cass,"  he sighs.  "Ye've read m' mind clearer than I can sometimes know it.  Aye:  a man can be 'feared of chainin' hisself t' one woman, howe'er much she means t' him.  But as ye lay it out t' me… I see 'tis no chain yer Mum offers, else she'd ne'er gone all these years wi' just a wish an' not a word."  He pats Cassie's cheek.  "Well, with only yerself t' speak for her, but I don't think she were askin' ye t' do it, nor does she know ye're speakin' of it now.  Aye?"  
  
"She doesn't know, and she'd kill me if she did."  
  
That clinches it.  "I want ye not t' think of it any longer, an' just know that 'twill be done."  
  
"Do you mean that?  Or are you just trying to shut me up?"  
  
Barbossa smiles.  "Cass, I couldn't shut yer mouth were I t' sew yer lips t'gether.  So aye, lassie, I'll ask her.  I promise ye on me most solemn word."  
  
  
  
  
  
-oOo-  
-oOo-  
  
  
  
  
  
"Alexander's fed and put down for the night,"  Sophie says as she climbs into bed,  "and all the lodgers are in their rooms."  
  
Barbossa slips his arms around her;  pulls her close.  "Cap'n Sophia,"  he teases.  "Y'are, ye know:  cap'n of this household.  Ye've worked hard this day, an' earned yer rest."  
  
"I don't want to rest;  I want you to hold me."  
  
"Ye wicked girl."  
  
"You delicious man."  
  
It's what they always say, and never grow tired of it.  
  
Barbossa's particularly gentle on this night as he makes love to Sophie, examining and tasting every soft inch as he works himself up to saying what he must.  _Nay, not 'must':  what I want_,  he corrects himself.  _Cassie were right:  what ye 'must' not do is fool yerself about it or fail t' do it out of fear_.  "Beautiful Dove,"  he murmurs.  "If I ask ye somethin', will ye answer?"  
  
Sophie smiles up at him and curls a fingertip into his beard.  "Of course, Hector."  
  
"Ohhh, I do like it when ye call me so, for there be few I'd let address me by m' name."  Barbossa pauses, figuring he's found the perfect segue.  "Speakin' of names… it seems t' me that ye've been Grantham long enough:  through bearin' three babes, an' me callin' this house home for all this time…"  He's struggling for the words, but Sophie's silent, giving him room to speak.  "'Tweren't right for me t' wait so long, an' so I ask ye t' forgive me… an'… an' will ye… will ye… Miss Sophia, will ye do me th' honor of puttin' aside th' name ye were born with so's ye might take t' yerself th' one I'd give ye instead?"  
  
Sophie blinks.  "Wh-what?"  
  
Barbossa is nervous and wonders if he'll be able to repeat himself.  "D' ye not understand me, Dove?  Did ye not hear?"  
  
"I… yes… maybe… I think… I don't know!"  From fiddling with Barbossa's beard, an astonished Sophie's gone to clutching at his hair and shoulders.  "Hector, are you asking what I think you are?"  Before he can answer, she bursts into tears that she cannot stop no matter how hard she tries.  "I'm sorry!"  she sobs.  "I'm so sorry!  I'm not meaning to… I never dreamed…"  
  
"I know ye didn't, nor did I,"  Barbossa admits, kissing her cheek before he embraces her tightly.  "I ne'er thought t' have a woman a'tall, much less…"  He hiccups.  "Much less a fine, respectable one, an' even less a bride."  The word comes out in a whisper.  "Miss Sophia Grantham, will ye wed me proper an' be m' wife?"  
  
He can feel Sophie nodding even before he hears her answer.  "With all my heart, Hector:  yes.  _Yes_.  And… maybe now's a good time to give you a bit of a wedding present."  
  
"Eh?"  
  
"You asked me something back when Mister Kelliher first came here and I wasn't sure;  but now I am and I would have told you in a day or two…"  Sophie's arms are around his waist, her hands rubbing his back.  "My love, you're going to be a father again."  
  
In the darkness, Barbossa begins to laugh, peal upon peal of thrilled merriment, biting it back only when Sophie quickly puts her hand over his mouth and hushes him, afraid he might wake the baby asleep in his cot.  "Another one so soon?"  he snickers.  "So, we'll be makin' Alexander int' a big brother even afore he gets a chance t' be a little un, 's that it?"  
  
"Mm-hm."  
  
"God A'mighty, girl, I know fields that be not as fertile as you!"  
  
Sophie joins in the laughter.  "How do you know it's me and not you?"  
  
"Well, mayhap 'tis both of us."  Barbossa's grinning like a madman.  "Don't really matter, I s'pose."  He puts his lips to Sophie's ear and murmurs,  "Ye must take good care of yerself an' th' bearn inside ye, Dove, so come now, settle down an' try t' sleep."  
  
As he nestles close to his bride-to-be in the quiet night, stroking her pregnant belly and listening to her sigh, Barbossa thinks, not of his past or even his present, but of his far future;  of the time when the many children she's birthed for him will make him a grandfather, and down through the years past that when, though he will be long gone, he'll be remembered as an ancestor.  Pirate, they will call him, and a murderous terror on the high seas, but ashore, the stories will say he was something different:  a man with a family:  a lover and a husband, a father and grandfather and countless times a great- ;  a man who shared a fierce, enduring love with a good and handsome woman;  a man who did everything he knew how to watch over her and their children and make them happy.  
  
Closing his eyes, Barbossa smiles as he sees all of this, knowing now to a certainty that his blood will go on and on in the world, and he'll never be forgotten.  


 

  
  
-oOo-  TBC  -oOo-


	9. Epilogue — Barbossa's Descendants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the grief of not knowing what became of the family he was born into, Barbossa can now revel in the new family he's created with Sophie. An epilogue examining who their children were, where they went, what they did… and Barbossa's own fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A gibbet can be as simple as a crossbeam from which a body is hung, or an enclosed iron cage; in either case, the purpose is to display an executed criminal's body and leave it to rot as a warning to others. Barbossa has a particular horror of ending up this way, and especially fears the effect on Sophie were she to find out about it.
> 
> On a parent's gravestone, ✝ following a child's name indicates that s/he has predeceased the parent, often in infancy because the mortality rate was so high. 
> 
> "Ship of the line": a heavily-armed battleship of the Royal Navy built for delivering massive broadsides.
> 
> You'll see a close-up example of chain shot in AWE as Barbossa orders it fired to separate the _Black Pearl_ from the _Flying Dutchman_. It was also used in CotBP against the _Dauntless_ , and was specifically made for taking down an opponent's mast. In addition, there was a slyly comical (and very non-Disney!!) use of it at the meeting of the Brethren Court. As Barbossa stands on the table, he holds it by the chain with one ball hanging just a little lower than the other. Any adult familiar with male anatomy will immediately understand the joke, while it flies right over the heads of the juvenile audience.
> 
> Many thanks to TheDuat for an excellent comment crystallizing the idea of Barbossa as the ship (or the sea, as I've used it here) and Sophie as the harbor.

 

 

-oOo-  
  
  


 

 

Captain Hector Peran Barbossa died at sea in a battle with a ship of the line, sword drawn while hanging onto the helm and calling out orders;  as he collapsed, shot through the heart, the last thought in his head was of his wife Sophie and how desperately he wished he could have returned home to her one last time.  His crew, per his standing orders, quickly weighted him down with chain shot and cast his body overboard, so that he would not suffer the indignity of being strung up in a gibbet.  By that time, he had fathered six children, four of whom survived into adulthood, married, and had large families of their own.  His descendants, including many men carrying on the Barbossa name, are now scattered throughout the Caribbean, all the Americas, and England, one even returning to Hector's ancestral home of Porthpyra (Polperro), Cornwall, to establish a whole new line of the Family Barbossa there.  
  
While perhaps fortunate in knowing what had become of him rather than being left to worry and wonder for the rest of her life, the widow Sophie was never the same after the loss of her beloved Hector.  Distraught and grieving, she closed the inn and became a recluse, never again straying from the property, where her daughter Cassandra looked after her for the next three years until her death — from a broken heart, everyone agreed — and in one last act of defiance aimed at the local priest who had scorned both her and her children, her dying wish was that she be laid to rest, not in the churchyard, but in a shady spot next to Grantham House where she could best look out over the ocean that was Hector Barbossa's natural element… and his grave.  "Where they'll always be able to see each other and she can welcome him home,"  Cassandra said at the burial just before she broke down in tears.  "Where he'll always be the storm and the sea, and she'll always be the calm and the shore.  One day… one day, they'll be together again;  I know it."  
  
Having retired mere weeks before Barbossa's final, fatal battle, quartermaster Michael Kelliher was able to fulfill his promise to look after his captain's family.  He went to live at Grantham House and remained there until his death, becoming a sort of adopted relative, much loved by Sophie and her children.  He was buried on Grantham House property close by Sophie to protect her in death, as Barbossa would have wanted.  His gravestone made note of the wife and four children he had never been able to see again.  
  
Sophie and Hector lost their two youngest children — a boy and a girl — within days of each other to scarlet fever.  They were barely two and four.  Although Barbossa put on a stoic face in public, in private he was shattered, with only Sophie knowing how much and how long he wept over the deaths of his little ones.  Although he never once said "I love you" to either her or his children, they were never in any doubt that he did.  
  
The four surviving Barbossa children followed every sort of trade, not all of them lawful.  Alexander was a gambler — a highly successful one — very popular with the ladies for his blue-eyed good looks, and quite the rogue.  He was a bigamist, with a wife in the Carolinas and another one in England;  he loved them both, and between them, they bore him fifteen children.  Matthew Cezar, discovering he had his father's liking for a life of danger, followed him into piracy for awhile before spending some time gun-running into the Colonies.  He then settled down in Boston, married, and led an eminently respectable life, "littering the landscape with his offspring," as his father would have put it.     
  
Pretty Helen bought a tavern in Jamaica, hired the three best cooks in the area to provide the food — a nod to Sophie, many of whose recipes were used in the tavern's kitchen — and was known as a cheerful, hard-dealing businesswoman whom no man had best cross if he knew what was good for him.  The tavern, called The Golden Sash — a second nod, this time to her father's signature accessory — remains in her family to this day.  
  
Cassandra took Barbossa's death almost as hard as her mother did.  Of all his children, she had spent the most time with him, sitting at his feet as he related tales of the sea and of his conquests;  and to honor him, she became the family historian and storyteller, passing Hector's exploits, Sophie's experiences, and stories of their life together orally down both to her own children and to those of her siblings, as well as writing down everything she could remember.  Her writings filled several large journals, and are currently on loan to a maritime museum, along with Sophie's surviving diaries, as a major source of information for those researching the Golden Age of Piracy;  in particular, for those who wish to study the personal life of one of the most notorious pirates of his time.  
  
Sophie's Port (although it has a different name to the outside world) is now a popular cruise destination both for the beauty of the island and its piratical history, while Grantham House remains to the present day in the possession of Cassandra's descendants, and has been continuously occupied as a family home.  In the 1980s, it underwent major repair and renovation as a historic building, the family returning half of it to its original function by becoming a bed-and-breakfast, several of the breakfast dishes served coming straight from the recipes in Sophie's diary.  Festive dinners are occasionally served, with Hector Barbossa's favorite Peppered Citrus Chicken and Honeyed Carrots being featured dishes.    
  
Tourists who visit Grantham House these days enjoy its simple rooms, pretty cottage-like atmosphere, stunning views, and excellent food, as well as being held in thrall by the stories told in the evening by their hosts of the pirate who once lived there and the woman who loved and wed him, and was mother to his children.  In recognition of her legendary talent as a cook and the scent which always touched her hands, leaving a sprig of rosemary or thyme at the foot of Sophie's tombstone is part of the ritual of staying there.  
  
During the extensive renovations, great pains were taken not to disturb either Sophie's grave or Michael Kelliher's.  The sole change was the replacement of the existing worn-down stone tablets with marble monuments.  Kelliher's was an exact replication of the original, while Sophie's was engraved with an extensive epitaph a grief-stricken Cassandra had composed in one of her journals.  Because her father had died at sea and there was no body to bury, it was just as much a memorial for him, and to the love he and Sophie bore one another.  
 

  
  
  
_Above the harbor, in view of the sea, lies_  
  
_SOPHIA GRANTHAM BARBOSSA_  
  
_She was beloved beyond measure by Hector, a courageous ship's captain,_  
  
_Who gave her his name, his heart, his soul_  
  
_Who gave her the strength of his body_  
  
_To father Cassandra, Matthew Cezar, Alexander, Helen, Jacinda ✝, and Martin ✝_  
  
_Who gave her a life not always serene, but full of joy_  
  
_As she shared with him worries and happiness, tears and consolation, fear and love._  
  
_Hector sleeps now in the ocean's depths,_  
  
_Beyond Sophia's grieving reach,_  
  
_But one day soon, Calypso willing, the sea will rush up to meet the shore_  
  
_And they shall forever be reunited._  
  
  
  
_Requiescat in pace._  
  
  
  
  
  
  
-oOo-  FIN  -oOo-


End file.
